


A Stroll on Sunday

by Antiquarianne



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux
Genre: Complete but not completely posted, Erik learns how to hold a normal conversation, F/M, Leroux, Rampant abuse of italics, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-10
Updated: 2015-08-14
Packaged: 2018-02-24 21:12:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 33
Words: 75,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2596583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Antiquarianne/pseuds/Antiquarianne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A snap decision to take a walk on Sunday has unforeseeable consequences for Erik.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Five Minutes to Midnight

**Author's Note:**

> Hello there! This is my first foray onto Ao3—I’m usually over on fanfiction.net, also as Antiquarianne. You can find the complete Stroll on Sunday posted there, as well, but it’ll be a bit rougher than what will be posted here. (Seriously, my poor readers were really very long-suffering with all of my typos and grammatical slip-ups.) I’ll be reposting here as I edit, hopefully a few chapters a day.  
> Even though this is technically a complete work, I always appreciate constructive criticism. I’m also terrible with tags—I’ll gladly take suggestions!  
> Enjoy!

Those whom the gods love, die young.

Those whom the gods would destroy, they first make mad.

Erik had never questioned which category he belonged to. It had been made abundantly clear to him throughout his life, by various means and circumstances. How many times had he cheated death? And how many times had madness touched him? Too many times to count, too many times to doubt.

Both continuing life and a faint echo of madness were with him at this moment, there again reminding him that, surely, heaven hated him.

He sat, alone save a bottle of fine Shirazi wine, watching the clock on his mantle move forward to midnight. When the hour struck, it would be his birthday—his fiftieth.

The date was quite arbitrary. A found date, to complement a happenstance name. Even the year he had chosen was questionable. By his calculations, he could have been incorrect by as many as three years in either direction.

Still, it was a date that served him well enough. As well as the name 'Erik' had, at least.

By that score, _not particularly well_.

He refreshed his wine glass and lifted it in idle salute as the chimes rang twelve times in slow succession.  
There. If not a celebration than at least an acknowledgment of fifty—or fifty-three—or forty-seven—years quite badly lived.

He drained his glass too quickly, in the hope that the alcohol would either lighten or deepen his depression. It did neither.

What had he to show for fifty years on Earth?

A palace by the Caspian Sea? An opera house to rival any made before or after it? A hundred other houses, not quite as grand, but never truly ordinary?

A thousand trinkets of outstanding ingenuity, and hundreds of thousands of notes that no one would ever hear.

Oh, yes, many works. Did those count? Perhaps. Perhaps not.

 _And let us not forget those who do so love you,_ Erik thought, not entirely bitterly. Mother dear, of course, and those in the riotous Romani carnival company. Perhaps the jealous shah or his little wife who could not fathom the price of anything— even blood.

The Daroga. Old friends, weren't they? Though it always seemed that the Grim Reaper tried to intrude on their rare social visits… Erik supposed the old skeleton had never heard that charming little English phrase about companies and crowds.

Speaking of companies: the opera company. What _enthusiastic_ greetings they all gave him! Everyone from the ever-generous managers to the humble errand boys knew him!

And, of course, his one great love.

Surely _theirs_ was a romance fit for storybooks, destined to be told over and over again for all time…  
Ah, that last bit was a knife in his heart. The other tragedies of his life he could mock, but _that_ one defied every attempt to soften the pain. Even death fled from _that_ wound, preferring to let injured Erik survive and suffer.

Had he been _so_ wrong, _so_ wicked that he could not be allowed to escape that one pain? A wife—how simple! A wife, like any other man might have a wife. A wife that need not even love him, merely _like_ him. A wife to take out on Sundays.

Funny, how the words brought tears to _his_ eyes now, even as they had brought tears to _her_ eyes then.

Through the veil of his blurred eyes, he could see what might have been.

Eventually, there would have been some quaint house in some little town, but for a while it would have been _here_. The house on the lake, the Palais Garnier, Paris.

They would arise early, each Sunday morning. They would take the Rue Scribe exit and start in the direction of the train station. She would hold onto Erik's arm here, just to ensure that they would not be separated. Through Le Marais. They would admire the medieval architecture, and Erik would point out those small details that so informed his own aesthetic. The walk would continue by Notre Dame, as the bells tolled to bring in the faithful. Finally, a stroll by the banks of the Seine until they—well, _she_ —wanted to stop.

Breakfast at a café? Why not, with his unremarkable mask that made him look like everybody-and-nobody? Church services? If _she_ desired.

But, oh, to _walk_ on a beautiful Sunday morning, with _her_ by his side.

He stared at the clock face for a long, mad moment. Alive and mad, most assuredly hated by heaven.

He set down his glass and stood. His mask, his felt hat, his cloak…

It was Sunday morning, and Erik was going out for a stroll.

________________________________________

_My Dear Uncle,_

_Forgive me if I omit my typical pleasantries, but I write on a matter of business._

_I was occasioned to look at the conditions listed in the back of the manager's memorandum-book, and was quite surprised to find an addition to the expected four._

_Written, in the queerest hand imaginable, was the following paragraph:  
"5. Or if the manager, in any month, delay for more than a fortnight the payment of the allowance which he shall make to the Opera ghost, an allowance of twenty thousand francs a month, say two hundred and forty thousand francs a year."_

_You may well imagine my surprise at this._

_I flatter myself in saying that, I have, I believe, acquitted myself admirably in managing the Palais Garnier in your stead.* It has been many months, and not once have I heard of this clause, nor, indeed, of the 'Opera ghost' or his outrageous salary! When I questioned M. Richard, he appeared to go into a panic, insisting that_ I never speak of the Opera ghost again, _lest he return._

_Am I correct in assuming that the addendum in the memorandum-book is some sort of vandalism or practical joke?  
Please advise._

_Your Nephew,  
Didier Moncharmin_

_*Ticket sales have held steady since the departure of La Carlotta. We have managed to maintain a fine schedule of excellent guest singers, though the position of resident 'diva' will soon need to be filled._

________________________________________

_M. Didier Moncharmin_  
Palais Garnier  
Paris, France 

CLAUSE NOT JOKE. IF CONTACTED BY 'OG," FOLLOW HIS INSTRUCTIONS EXACTLY. REPEAT, EXACTLY. PRAY GOD FOR NO SUCH CONTACT.

ARMAND MONCHARMIN.


	2. A Stroll on Sunday

Erik imagined that Paris at half-past midnight was much like Paris at any other time of the day. An astonishing number of people were out and about. Carriages rolled along the streets. Most were returning home, but were occasionally headed out towards new adventures. Men walked, alone or in groups, in home-spun or superfine.

Erik, with practiced ease, melted into the shadows. He resisted the inclination to set a fast pace. Speed, he reminded himself, was not needed. He was not attending to business. He was not running for the sake of his life or liberty. He was out for a pleasure stroll.

What a wholly novel idea.

When, in his entire life, had he simply walked out of doors for the sheer joy of it?

_Never._

Never—this little outing included. His feelings were far closer to panic than pleasure. No one paid him the smallest bit of attention, but Erik was positively sure _someone_ was watching him. More than watching, perhaps: stalking, _hunting_.

Erik fingered the length of catgut concealed in his coat sleeve. It was a morbid amusement to him that his Punjab lassoes had something in common with his musical instruments. This particular piece came from a cello, if he was not mistaken.

This train of thought did not comfort him, but it did distract him.

Without the intention of doing so, he followed the path he had so long ago imagined walking with Christine.  
He winced at the thought of her name. Erik had become quite adept at forgetting details about _the incident._ Immediately following, he had frequently relived the entire experience. He would strike a key on his piano and end up hearing the imperfect scale Christine had sung in their first lesson together. He would awake in his coffin, with the ghost of her kiss on his brow. In his bleakest moment, he was sure the bronze cricket on the mantle was chirping…

He had lived with the sensate misery for weeks, expecting an imminent release by death. But time marched on, death failed to come, and the incident started to fade and blur. Now, instead of a hundred small reminders, Erik had only to suffer with one, composite miasma of pain and guilt.

He considered this to be an improvement. It was only after this metamorphosis took place that he became convinced that he was, in fact, alive. That surprise had been compounded by the realization that he would soon be (something like) fifty.

Fifty! Far too old to live out his remaining years as a lovesick puppy! Erik had made a sort of bet with himself at that point. If he lived to see his birthday, he would be obliged to find a way to _continue_ living. He might even attempt to live _well_. Of course, if he did not live to see his birthday, the rest was immaterial.

Now came the question: what ought he do with his remaining years?

He could scarcely continue walking by the Seine for the rest of his life.

The opera was the obvious choice. It would take precious little to persuade the company that the infamous Ghost had returned, as supernatural and malevolent as ever. He was convinced that even the managers would play their appropriate roles this time: Richard had become increasingly neurotic and superstitious over the last two years; Moncharmin now acted as a sort of Manager-at-Large from his villa on the Amalfi Coast. His agent in Paris was his pliable young nephew, who seemed to have a talent for _following instructions._

That was promising.

It had been twenty-two years since construction had first started on what would become the Palais Garnier. In that time, Erik had woven himself seamlessly into the very foundation of the institution. True, he had withdrawn in the past years—but every professional required a sabbatical now and then, did they not?

It was tempting to turn back and start _reminding_ those fair souls at the Palais Garnier of his existence right away. But, really, what _was_ the hurry?

Erik continued to walk, listening to the movement of the water and the general hum of the city. He found himself humming along with them.

________________________________________

Didier Moncharmin was young, but not given over to the foolish notions of supernaturalism that seemed to permeate his Opera. Yes, he did think of the Garnier as his Opera. While Uncle Armand only concerned himself with bottom lines and Monsieur Richard stuck to the social aspects of the business, Didier had made it his business to know _the Opera_ and make it a success.

It had been six months of smooth sailing since Didier's appointment to 'assist' his uncle. But then—ah! It had seemed like such a fine idea at the time to really familiarize himself with the various laws and bylaws of the Opera. Responsible and all together without danger!

In retrospect, Didier pinpointed reading the memorandum-book and its accompanying clauses as a turning point. Or perhaps it was his following inquiry to his uncle, or the telegram he received in response. Whatever was the cause, Didier started to hear of the _Opera Ghost_ from all parts of the company.

Richard still refused to speak on the matter, resolutely crossing himself and muttering prayers when Didier was occasioned to press for answers. Didier resolved not to bring up the matter with him again after seeing just how fragile the poor man's health was. Richard had all but gone into hysterics when Didier had simply asked if he was in possession of a safety-pin.

His other lines of inquiry were met with less panic but were hardly more helpful. The chorus and ballet rats appeared to blame everything from sore throats and broken toes to missing hair ribbons on _the Phantom_. The set changers and designers insisted that the shade was murderous. The musicians tut-tutted that description, and claimed that the ghost had been known to repair damaged instruments from time to time.

But the ghost, they all said, had lost interest in the opera. He was seldom seen and never caused much mischief anymore. The change had happened around the same time the Count de Changy had died, allegedly but unprovably at the hand of his younger brother. Said younger brother had then eloped with a chorus girl who had been set on a course to stardom. That had been something of a scandal, Didier recalled, one that his uncle had chosen not to capitalize on.

Didier dismissed the stories that attempted to tie the ghost mythos to the 'Daaé incident.' Beyond certain coincidences of dates, the idea was patently absurd.

At the conclusion of his investigation, Didier determined that it did not matter _what_ the Opera Ghost was. What mattered was the he no longer appeared to demand a salary or make a nuisance of himself.

Still, Didier could not repress a chill when his office door slammed shut, seemingly of its own accord, on Monday morning.

________________________________________

On the Sunday following Erik's birthday, he started his walk around two o'clock in the morning. Midnight had a nice bit of poetic resonance, but, in practice, was not the ideal time to go out.

After some weeks of experimentation, he found that _four_ o'clock was the right time to leave the Opera House. It was a nice balance of pre-dawn quiet and respectable bustle. Those who were out were out with a purpose, quite disinclined to pay attention to anyone else.

Erik was glad of this, for his Sunday walks had become important to him. Normal men with normal faces and normal lives went walking on Sundays, though perhaps not quite so early. And if there was one thing Erik craved, it was normalcy. He had mistaken that desire for many other things over the years— love, work, usefulness—but he had at long last determined that it was simply _normalcy_ he wanted.

He did not suppose that haunting an Opera House was a typical career choice, but one had to make do with what one had on hand. Speaking of the company, they were falling in line most satisfactorily. Even little Moncharmin seemed to be developing a proper fear of the phantom.

It would soon be time to make his presence known in a more definitive fashion—and claim his salary in the meantime. It wasn't that Erik _needed_ the money, or even _wanted_ it. But what was a career without payment? A hobby—and that _would not do_.

He stood on one of the Seine's many bridges until the sun started to rise in earnest. Soon there would be too many people out, and the panic and paranoia would attach themselves to Erik too strongly. He pulled his hat down a little further and started back, not a moment too soon.

Early mass was ending at Notre Dame, and a good number of the parishioners were walking towards to the river banks. They were a mostly solemn bunch, silent and unassuming.

One woman stayed ahead of the crowd with quick, wide steps, heading in the direction of Erik's bridge. She was dressed in black, like most of the other women. A white scarf edged with tatting was thrown carelessly over her hair and across her shoulders. She was unremarkable, save for her treatment of her rosary. She held the crucifix firmly, letting the beads swing. Occasionally, she would twist her hand with a bit too much force, causing the decades to wind around her wrist. She wielded it less like a sacred object and more like a weapon.

Erik moved to the side to avoid collision, keeping his own steps even and long. He thought they would pass without incident, and he was nearly correct.

"Good morning, Monsieur!" She was the first person in a month of Sunday morning walks to address Erik. It was a simple thing, a pleasantry uttered without thought and without meaning.

They were also the first words directed to Erik in... well, a very long time.

"Good morning," he replied quietly, and after some hesitation, "Madame."

He sped through his return walk, avoiding contact, and keeping his eyes fixed on the cobblestones. He did not look up until he was back in the catacombs beneath the Opera House.

Perhaps four o'clock was _not_ the ideal time for his walks, but that was a thought for another Sunday.


	3. Too Late and Too Old

Nora Farley awoke at her writing desk. She pushed her fingers through her hair, dislodging the decorative combs she wore.

"Per—" Nora cleared her throat and tried again. "Perrine?" She was met with silence and looked at the clock. A quarter to three. She had asked not to be disturbed and her staff had taken her seriously. She _could_ wake up her maid, but she didn't feel like being fussed over. If there was one thing Perrine did exceptionally well, it was fuss. Not to mention that it was now Sunday, and therefore, technically, the maid's day off.

Nora tried to look at the papers spread before her one last time. She remembered thinking at some point last night that everything would look better 'tomorrow.' Well, tomorrow had come, and she had been proved terrifically wrong.

Closing out her great-uncle's estate would have been a job best left to his lawyers—if he had bothered to retain any. Alternatively, Nora's cousin, as the only male heir, should have attended to it. Alas, Daniel's attachment to the Canadian High Commissioner's office did not afford him sufficient time to do so. He had fairly begged Nora to, if not take over the whole mess, than at least get a start on it.

_I'll be in Paris by Michaelmas,_ he has promised. Well, Michaelmas was already a month gone and the last communiqué she had received from Daniel had not been promising. It begun by referring to Nora as _'Dear Girl,_ ' which was never a good sign, and ended with _'so much trouble with the rail companies—cannot be spared!'_ His revised arrival date was _'near Christmastime,_ ' but Nora knew better than to put her faith in that.

She straightened out the folios on her desk. They mostly concerned the cryptic French tax system, but also including notes on a clipper ship no one in the family knew Uncle Christian had possessed. Nothing good came from working so late at night—or so early in the morning, as the case might be— and Nora tried to stand up. There wasn't much point to going to bed, she supposed. She had barely an hour left before she would need to leave for mass.

She turned up the flame on her kerosene lamp, causing long shadows to appear throughout her room. After three months, the room had lost some of its pre-furnished apartment anonymity. Nora's books were lined up on previously bare shelves, different bedding had been acquired, and, of course, the armoire was filled to capacity. After all, what lady of means went to Paris and did not indulge in some little shopping?

Her Sunday attire existed quite separately from the rest of her wardrobe. Fashionable dress, with its tight lacing and myriad underpinnings, demanded help to be put on. (Help to remove was also supremely useful, Nora determined as she tried to unbutton the back of yesterday's dress.) Six days out of the week there was help to be had, but on Sundays Nora made do with a modest, front-buttoned dress. It probably appeared rather reverential of her to come into grand Notre Dame so attired, but godly devotion had precious little to do with it…

She brushed out her hair after dressing, pinning it up a little too haphazardly. Therein was the benefit of the chapel veil. Not as a sign of womanly submission, but as a disguise for Nora's poor hair dressing skills. No matter. Dressing in such a subdued fashion kept her from notice and comment on her early morning walks.

Nora retrieved her amber bead rosary from the table next to the front door and started out.

The morning was nearly frigid, though snow had yet to make its appearance in the city. The streetlamps were burning low. Nora wished she could say her early morning pilgrimage was the result of piety. In reality, she liked her day to start early—and for mass to end early.

That was perhaps not the correct way to phrase how she felt. Mass she did not mind. _Confession_ she minded profoundly. She did not like to lay her sins bare, and the thought of doing so filled her with a discomfort akin to rage.

The priest at her home parish had even mildly insinuated that, perhaps, she did not need to come so often. Especially when one considered that the main sin she would confess, week in and week out, was wrath at the prospect of Confession.

_Canon Law_ , she reminded herself, only required the Sacrament of Penance once a year. _Her mother's law_ had required weekly Confession. Now the old woman was dead, and Nora's relief at that fact prompted a guilt that compelled her to follow the traditions of her youth. It made for an altogether unpleasant bit of worship, and left her with a feeling of agitation that stayed with her until the services were over and she was well out of the cathedral.

She found that seeing the masked man by the bridge helped her tremendously. She had first seen him, oh, four or so weeks previous. The mask had escaped her notice the first time: she had merely seen an overly-tall man who disappeared in his clothes and seemed ill at ease, as if the early morning sunrays would burn him.

It was that nervous posture that had first caught her eye and inspired her to offer a pleasantry. _That_ had startled him even more, and he barely stammered out a reply. But what a reply! So few words, spoken so quietly, so haltingly, but in the most sensational voice.

The echo of that voice had prompted her to say 'good morning' again on the following Sunday as they passed on the bridge. That time, he managed to string the phrase together properly and even touch the brim of his hat.

He served as a symbol of sorts now—her obligations were over for the week, and she was free. She was calm. At first, she had thought it was simply his voice that inspired that feeling of almost-comfort, and that was certainly part of it. More than that, however, was the fact that he radiated unhappiness. Surely, here was a man worse off than she was—and she found solace in that.

(She wondered idly if this constituted rejoicing in another's misfortune; if so, did it warrant confession?)

He was there at the bridge again today, and Nora hoped her greeting didn't betray quite how tired she was. If it did, it did not affect the man. He replied with something Nora could almost call _good humor_. That thought made her smile, even more than his previous melancholy.

Yes, Nora considered Sunday mornings in Paris to be a confirmed habit. Pray for her immortal soul, say hello to the masked man, and walk until she forgot where she was going.

________________________________________

Since the occasion of turning half a century, Erik had started cataloguing things he was _too old for_. Dying of love and midnight walks had been at the top of the list—he now added 'scrubbing floors.'

He could not remember the last time he had been obliged to put such effort into cleaning the house by the lake. For years, he had maintained it through light, constant attention, never letting it fall into disrepair. _That_ habit had predictably died after Christine had left. The dead didn't particularly care about the state of their crypts, now did they?

Alas, Erik was not dead, but the dirt that had accumulated in the corners of virtually every room was threatening to do him in. He had succeeded in cleaning his own room, paying particular attention to the not-entirely-neglected pipe organ. The hallway was next. He paused at the door to the Louis-Philippe room. … perhaps he would hold off on that particular area for the time being. It was an absolute wreck, if memory served.

It was in the drawing room that Erik gave up on the floors. He sat on the cold wood, shirt sleeves rolled up on his thin, sallow arms, with a sore back and a cramp in his hand. He figured that most other men with an annual income of nearly a quarter of a million francs hired people to wash their floors for them. The idea had a certain appeal. He could put an advertisement in the _Epoque—_

_WANTED. Maid of all work to maintain small lakefront house. Must be comfortable around reclusive genius of a musical persuasion. Must not fear the dark or damp underground passages or rats or rat catchers. References optional. Please address response to Monsieur O. G. (private), care of the Opera Garnier._

Well, that would be patently absurd. Erik certainly couldn't refer to himself as a genius. It simply wasn't done, even if it was true.

Erik snickered and then rolled his eyes. Laughing at his own jokes now, was he? How sad. It took rather too much effort to arise from the floor, though the kink did come out of his back. That lent him some hope. He felt it imperative to have the house in order by the end of the week.

Come Saturday evening, he would be attending the opera.

_Rigoletto_ was being performed for the third week in a row. The reviews had been excellent. Erik was not especially fond of the story, but he had it on good authority that the house was booked solid. Only Box Five remained empty— _'in deference to the traditions of the Opera house'_ was the reason cited. Given young Didier Moncharmin's current obsession with the Opera Ghost, Erik foresaw a long life ahead for the tradition.

Yes, a night at the opera, the chance to perhaps make his presence known, and the opportunity to drop off a missive on Moncharmin's desk… Saturday would prove to be a wonderful diversion. Erik found himself looking forward to Saturday with an enthusiasm he had not thought he still possessed. Perhaps he was too old for that, as well, but Erik did not care.

But first, the house had to be cleaned.

________________________________________

_Nora, my dear girl,_

_As thanks for your many and varied services, I would like to present you with 'a night on the town.' A friend at the Embassy in Paris was good enough to procure a ticket for you to the Opera Garnier, the showing on November the first. I made sure to request a private box, as you prefer—my friend has assured me he will be able to reserve one._

_Enjoy yourself, and stay out of mischief._

_Affectionately,  
Daniel Tremblay_


	4. Most Unfortunate Timing

"Shall I accompany the carriage, Miss Farley?" Mr. Carey was somewhere around sixty-five years of age and had served Nora's father before taking charge of her small household. In her younger years, Nora had treated Mr. Carey's word as law. These days, she found him hyper-competent but chose not to pay much heed to his near-constant disapproval. It was usually a silent disapproval, though he frequently offered to 'help' when he found Nora's activities dissatisfying.

"That will not be necessary," she replied. "Don't bother waiting up, either. I'll let myself in."

Mr. Carey merely blinked, though Nora knew he would have rather winced. She offered him a smile.

"Don't worry yourself, Mr. Carey," she said, "I'm rather too old to be causing mischief."

"I am sure you never caused mischief, Miss Farley."

A touching, if misinformed, sentiment. Nora stepped into the beaded evening cape Mr. Carey held open for her and allowed him to escort her to the waiting carriage. "Good evening, Mr. Carey."

He replied with a bland expression and shut the carriage door once Nora was settled in. "I do hope, Miss."

________________________________________

The hollowed wall and pillar of Box Five did not afford Erik the ability to see into the theater, but he could clearly hear all goings-on.

The orchestra was starting to tune.

There was something amazing about that sound. The concertmaster setting the pitch, a hundred-odd instruments falling in line. It could have been a cacophony; it was usually euphony.

How many years since Erik had listened, really listened to it? He had not availed himself of Box Five since Christine's ethereal triumph in _Faust_ , and therefore the simple answer was _two years_. But perhaps the true answer was _quite a bit longer_. Ever since _La Juive_ inaugurated the Garnier's stage, it had been Erik's habit to arrive in the middle of the first act. One could _hope_ the orchestra was already in tune by then.

Erik had had every intention of arriving at his usual time. It was actually something of an annoyance when he found himself ready to depart much too early. He had tried to delay, but one could only stand to retie a bowtie _so_ many times before absurdity started to set it.

So he found himself, hidden in the hollow pillar, listening to the orchestra ready itself. When the lights dimmed, he would settle in to one of the plush velvet chairs, and _enjoy the performance…_

The sound of the box door opening tore Erik's attention away from the orchestra. There was a swish of skirts, and the unmistakable, reedy voice of Jules Giry's widow.

"If I may ask, Madame, are you superstitious?"

"No," was the reply. A woman's voice, cold and rather clipped. It was impossible to say if she was answering in the negative or simply declining to answer at all.

" _Ah_ ," Madame Giry intoned, "and were you informed, Madame, that this box _is haunted?_ "

There was a pause and Erik repressed a snicker. Good Madame Giry! The woman said again: "No."

"If you please, Madame, I could try to arrange for alternative seating for you…"

"That will not be necessary, I am sure," the woman said.

"But—"

"I simply wish to be left alone."

Madame Giry snorted in a manner most unbefitting to her station. It brought another smile to Erik. "Good luck, Madame."

"Good _evening_ , Madame," the woman responded.

A rustle of taffeta and the close of the door announced Madame Giry's departure.

He mentally repeated the woman's send-off of the box keeper. _Good evening, Madame._ Such simple words, but they struck a chord with him. A slight foreign accent, a slight hurried quality… _Good evening, Madame…_

It came to him suddenly. If the frost in her voice was replaced with fire, and instead she said _good morning, Monsieur…_

Erik finally did chuckle, very quietly.

The woman with the rosary was going to have quite the story to tell her fellow faithful at Notre Dame tomorrow morning!

________________________________________

Erik remained hidden and silent throughout the first scene. He listened to the box as much as the opera, refamiliarizing himself with the quirks and nuances of the acoustics. The woman was eerily silent, though that was, perhaps, simply because she was alone. Odd, that. What woman came to the opera without an escort? Erik pictured her in her Sunday morning attire—complete with white scarf and abused rosary—sitting in the box, a strange picture of isolation and utter _separateness_ from the rest of the theatergoers. He almost lamented that he was going to disrupt her evening.

Almost.

Rigoletto soon launched into _Pari siamo_ , and Erik took that as his cue. It was not a song he was keen on, for various reasons, but would serve as a fitting background for his triumphant return to Box Five.  
Erik threw his voice in the general vicinity of the woman's chair.

"Enjoying the opera?" he asked.

"Yes." She spoke sotto voce, but with the same clipped tone she had used with the box keeper and on Sunday mornings. He would have appreciated a note of surprise in her voice. A pox on Madame Giry's gleeful warning.

"You should know," Erik continued, "that you have commandeered a reserved box…"

"Oh, come back later," she muttered.

_That_ he was not prepared for. "Come back, Madame?"

"I _like_ this song," she said by way of explanation, "you can come back when Gilda has her aria—ah, I forget what it is—"

" _Caro nome_?" Erik offered, amused in spite of himself.

"Yes, exactly! You can come back then."

"I shall oblige, Madame."

He stayed true to his word, waiting through Rigoletto's duet with his daughter and the declaration of love between Gilda and the Duke. As soon as Gilda first sang the name of Gualtier Maldè, Erik returned his attention to the woman in his box.

"As I said, Madame. This box has been reserved."

"Indeed?" She sounded bored and distracted, obviously paying more attention to the stage than her conversation with a phantom voice. It was almost a shame—she did not seem the type to spread the word of ghostly harassments. If she did, Erik expected them to be offered with an arched brow and possibly mimicry. He pitched his voice lower.

"Indeed."

"And who are you?"

Erik considered this briefly. Ah, if only she knew what she was asking! For the sake of simplicity, he said: "The ghost!"

"The ghost?" She sounded less than credulous.

"The ghost."

"And to what do I owe the honor of chatting with an opera ghost?"

"I would very much appreciate it if you left." He allowed just enough venom to slide into his voice, the smallest warning that _there might be consequences._

This was met with silence.

"Why? Would it kill you to share your box?" She made a sound somewhere between and cough and laugh. "Oh dear, that is the most foolish thing I've said this week…"

Erik did not reply for a moment. The 'special guest' soprano, a young Portuguese girl, was actually quite good. Her voice was wonderfully agile, if a bit small for so grand a stage. He dropped his voice to a low whisper and situated it very near to the woman's ear.

_"Please leave, Madame._ "

"In my very thoughts now, are you?" she asked, equally softly. Her voice would have been lost against the music, had Erik not been listening for it so intently.

" _I will not ask again._ "

She said nothing. Erik leaned his masked forehead against the inner wall as the aria finished. Yes, the soprano was quite good, hitting all of the right notes at the right moments. Would that her voice carried a bit better…

________________________________________

Nora was not so foolish as to believe she was going to be left alone for the remainder of _Rigoletto_. The voice was silent for what little was left of Act One. It did not speak to her through the intermission, though she remained seated and alone.

Whatever form she had expected the voice's return to come in, it was not the _chatter_ that started up in her box the moment the curtain rose on the second act.

It was the sound of a dozen— no, a _hundred_ — low voices, whispering behind her chair. It was a terrible noise, one that she could not pinpoint the origin of, and it was growing.

Until that moment, the idea that _the_ voice was truly supernatural had not occurred to her. But what single, _mortal_ man could create such a riot of noise? It gained in volume, until the patrons in neighboring boxes started to make shushing sounds.

A voice, higher and crueler than _the_ voice, spoke in her ear, " _shan't you leave now? It is about to become so frightfully_ loud!"

She remained in her chair, as if frozen. As the din continued to grow, theatergoers from all sections started murmuring and glancing in the direction of Box Five. Nora kept her own gaze fixed on the stage, which was more than she could say for the tenor playing the Duke. His eyes traveled upwards more than once.

So much for Nora's solitary evening out.

There was a firm knock on the door, and the voices ceased. The odd old box keeper came to stand directly behind Nora. "Won't you allow us to move you to a more suitable seat, Madame?" There was a note of smugness in the old woman's voice that nearly drove Nora to violence.

"Shall I be alone?" Nora growled.

"The party in Box Two was called away during the intermission," the box keeper said. "It is entirely at your disposal."

_Stand your ground,_ the stubborn part of Nora protested. _They shan't scare you away like a superstitious school girl!_

_You said you wanted to be alone,_ another voice countered, _And you are_ hardly _alone here in Box Five!_

"Very well." Nora stood and allowed herself to be directed—herded—out. The moment before she crossed into the hallway, _the_ voice came to speak on her shoulder again.

" _It was simply most unfortunate timing, Madame._ "

"Most," Nora agreed, earning a strange look from the box keeper and the suggestion of laughter in her ear.

________________________________________

_My Dear Uncle,  
It appears that M. Richard's prediction was accurate. After sending you my last letter concerning 'O.G.,' the shade has reappeared in the Opera house. He disrupted the second act of _Rigoletto _, though he was appeased when Box Five was vacated._  
Equally disconcerting, a letter was on my desk this morning, written in the same red ink and awkward penmanship as the fifth clause. It demanded the full salary of 20,000 francs be paid in two weeks’ time!  
Per your instructions, I intend on giving the fiend his requested sum. But is this really necessary? Is there no way to fight it? I cannot imagine a resident ghost will be good for business!  
Your Nephew,  
Didier Moncharmin


	5. The Week Following

There was a certain type of tile used in Persia, colored the same intense blue as lapis lazuli. Erik had been fond of it and incorporated it extensively in the designs he created for the Shah. How curious that the exact color would reappear in his life, in the form of a Parisian dawn.

For a moment, Erik lamented the years he spent hidden underground. Then again, how many average men were still abed at this hour? _They_ certainly weren't admiring the pure, true hue of the sky!

However, even if the sky was ash and the Seine lead, Erik's mood could not have been repressed. What a night! What a fantastic night he had had! How could he have forgotten how his blood hummed in tune with the orchestra, how the office of 'Ghost' called on so many of his unusual skills?

How many other things had he forgotten about living? How many other things had he _never even experienced?..._

No. _That_ was a dangerous line of thought for him. Erik—master illusionist, innovative architect, virtuoso composer, world traveler!— had he not experienced _more_ in one lifetime than other men could have in a dozen? Could that not be enough for him?

The bells of Notre Dame interrupted his thoughts, mercifully.

Erik was unsure if he would see the rosary woman or not, but she appeared at the foot of the Pont au Double at exactly the same time she usually did.

He would not have recognized her had it not been for her forceful walk. She was attired in what Erik could only assume was last night's costume. Plum silk and black Chantilly lace was wholly appropriate for a night at the opera; not quite in fashion for an early mass. She was perhaps saved from utter impropriety by the cut of her gown. It was long sleeved and lacked the extremely low décolletage currently in vogue.

Her rosary was absent.

They crossed paths at the typical point.

"Good morning, Monsieur!" she said tartly, already a step past Erik. Well! She was nothing if not predictable! Erik smiled.

"Good morning, Madame."

The clack of her high heeled shoes halted. "Monsieur?"

Erik tensed, but paused. "Madame?"

"Forgive me," she had obviously turned around to face Erik. "I have a rather odd request."

Erik kept his back to her a moment longer before turning around. He angled his face downward, allowing the weak morning sun and the brim of his hat to cast deep shadows over his white mask. Of course, the woman had no reason to hide her own face, affording Erik the chance to finally look at her. Fine dark hair was pulled back with tortoiseshell combs. The look in her green eyes was predictably sharp, her dark brows arched quizzically. Her nose had telltale signs of having been broken and reset. An elegant, if not arresting face, he decided. "Your servant, Madame."

"Would you please repeat these words? _'It was simply most unfortunate timing._ '"

Erik could have easily altered his voice to mimic any accent or take on any quality. That would have been the wise thing to do, yes? He couldn't have this little woman connecting him to the fabled Opera Ghost, now could he?

"It was simply most unfortunate timing," Erik repeated, the opportunity to change the sound of his voice slipping by with each word. The entire phrase came out in his own dark tenor.

The woman stood utterly still for a long moment, sharp eyes still fixed on Erik's hidden face. She laughed all of the sudden, like a roll of thunder. She turned on her heel, still laughing. "Good morning, Monsieur!"

Erik watched her walk away, steps quick as ever. He could not help but feel that he had just made a terrible, foolish mistake.

________________________________________

 

Didier had revised his opinion of Mademoiselle Nora Farley a half dozen times before meeting her. When he had first inquired as to who had been seated in Box Five, he found the seating request penned on official stationery from the British Embassy. The thought that Saturday's moment of mayhem could perhaps result in an international incident nearly set in Didier a panic. He had been most relieved to see that the ticket purchase had been personal, not political, in nature.

One assumption made and undone.

The next thing he noticed was that the box was reserved for _Madame Nora Farley_. Perhaps the wife of some official attached to the embassy? That could prove worse for the theater than if it had been a true politician!  
That notion was done away with when Didier found her address—and the small note that she was in fact _Mademoiselle Farley._ A daughter, perhaps? Unlikely. A _mistress_ , almost certainly. The address seemed to confirm to that. It was a not in a bad neighborhood, per se, but less refined than what an aristocratic Englishwoman would find acceptable.

He called on that address late Monday morning, and was forced to reassess Mademoiselle Farley again.

"Didier Moncharmin," Didier presented his card to the stern and impeccably dressed servant who opened the door. "To see Mademoiselle Farley."

"I shall inquire, Monsieur," the man said, his French fluent but marred by an appallingly strong English accent. "If you care to step into the foyer?"

Didier could scarcely call the apartment's entryway a proper foyer—stepping in practically put him in the parlor. He would have pinned it as a nice, middle-class abode, if not for the butler, who would have seemed more at home in one of those grandiose English country houses.

A minute later, the man reappeared, offering to take Didier's overcoat and hat. "Miss Farley will see you shortly."

In Didier's experience, a woman's concept of 'shortly' could in fact be quite long. He was pleasantly surprised when Mademoiselle Farley appeared after only a few minutes. She was older than Didier, perhaps thirty-five, perhaps forty. She wore a morning dress in the latest fashion, Havana brown velvet and heavily adorned with passementerie. Quite respectable looking, and with none of the airs he associated with the paramours of powerful men.

"Monsieur Moncharmin. To what do I owe the honor of a visit from the manager of the lovely Opera Garnier?" She spoke easily and without the heavy accent of her butler.

Didier stood and bowed over her hand with a practiced flourish. "Mademoiselle Farley. I understand that you had a rather poor evening at my opera. I came to put myself at your service, to see if there is any way I could make amends." It was not quite a lie. Damage control was one of Didier's objections; the other was to find out as much as he could about the otherworldly ruckus that had necessitated Mademoiselle Farley's change of seat. In a red-inked letter Didier found on his desk, the Opera Ghost had proudly claimed credit for the incident. He had also promised more extravagant disruptions, should Box Five be let out again. Didier intended on _obeying_ , but he first desired all the information available.

Mademoiselle Farley motioned for Didier to take a seat, arranging herself on a low settee. "A poor evening, Monsieur Moncharmin? I thought the production was lovely."

She seemed sincere in this sentiment and Didier smiled and inclined his head modestly. "So kind of you to say so. But I understand that there was a disruption…"

Her brow knitted, as if confused. "Oh, the _noise_. In the second act, yes. The attendants were good enough to find me another seat."

"Have you any idea what caused it?" Didier asked, trying to sound casual.

"I haven't any idea." She paused as her manservant reappeared with a coffee cart, which she served in fine Continental fashion. "At first I imagined it came from one of the neighboring boxes—now I wonder if it was not some sort of prank."

Didier recalled his first thoughts upon reading the Ghost's clause. "That does seem to be the logical first reaction." He sipped his coffee. "Was there no warning, Mademoiselle?"

"None," she replied with a shrug. The gesture was very nearly Parisian, elegant and utterly nonchalant. "Has anything of the sort happened before at your theater?"

"Well, there are some who claim the Palais Garnier is haunted," Didier said. When Mademoiselle Farley did not respond, he elaborated. "The, ah, resident phantom, if you will, has been known to have fun at the expense of the patrons, from time to time."

"You would think a ghost would have better ways of occupying its time," she replied blandly.

"You would think." After a few more exchanges, it was clear that Nora Farley did not think much of the idea of the supernatural interfering with her evening. He believed it was time to end his visit. Didier reached into his coat pocket and withdrew an envelope. "If you please, Mademoiselle: the Comique is lending us _Lakmé_ , and Mademoiselle van Zandt to sing her. The management would like you to attend, as our guest."

"How kind of you," she said, accepting the ticket. "Forgive me for not being more helpful in identifying your prankster."

"It is of little consequence," Didier said, "so long as it remains an _isolated_ incident."

________________________________________

Erik spent Monday on the catwalks, high above the main stage. Chorus auditions were being held, and he longed to hear the promise of greatness in at least one of those voices.

He was disappointed, but not surprised. It was foolish to search for another Christine. He did not seek a personal pupil, of course, and certainly _not_ a romance. Rather, a divine voice concealed by inexperience. A note here or there to the managers could guide such a talent's career, if only such a talent was to be found.

The departure of La Carlotta did not trouble Erik on a personal level, but he clearly saw the impact it had on the _business_ of the opera. Erik begrudgingly allowed that the woman had technical proficiency (even if her interpretations of her roles were heinous!) Her voice was large and carried well to the nearly two thousand seats in the house, but more importantly her _name_ carried well. A name meant rather too much in opera, and the Garnier was suffering without one.

Invitations to various leading ladies had been made. Many were accepted—but only for limited engagements. Erik thought that, should a decision be further delayed, he would _suggest_ offering the position to the Portuguese Gilda. Not ideal, but a suitable stopgap. Perhaps with the right repertoire, the right adjustments, the right marketing… yes, something might be made of the girl, and the Garnier with her.

Around the time the chorus-master ended the auditions, Didier Moncharmin walked across the stage. The manager fumbled with his cigarette case and then his matches. He was ill at ease, if the four failed attempts to light his match were any indication.

"Monsieur Gabriel! Have you seen Madame Giry?" the young man asked.

"I have not, Monsieur Moncharmin," the chorus-master replied. "I do not think she stays on Mondays. If she is here, she is likely in the ballet foyer with her daughter."

"If you happen upon her, send her to my office."

Ah, now that was promising! Erik could fathom but one reasonable explanation for Moncharmin to seek out a box keeper—the delivery of twenty thousand francs!


	6. Lakmé

The grand staircase of the Palais Garnier was flanked by two massive, light-bearing sculptures. Two pairs of women, elegantly crafted out of what Nora assumed was bronze, held blazing candelabras aloft. Nora had stared at the lights a bit too long and turned away dazed.

_Dazed_ , as if with a blow to the head, was a suitable word to describe how Nora had been feeling since her last visit to the theater.

The strange events in Box Five had left her almost manic for days after the fact.

(Conversing with a disembodied voice? Allowing herself to be manipulated and ushered away from her box? Letting her amusement transform into annoyance, and the annoyance into anger? Confusion was another emotion that skirted the edges of her consciousness; she refused to admit to it. Clearly, she was not getting sufficient sleep…)

She had dismissed her carriage after _Rigoletto_ that night, believing that a walk in the crisp air would do her good. Perhaps her anger would soften by the time she would arrive home. As it happened, she never managed to return home that night. Instead, she wandered the city, much too late at night, far too recklessly, and for far too long.

By the time she had arrived at Notre Dame, her evening gown was rumpled, the hemline stained irreparably. She had sat in the most inconspicuous seat, listless and unlistening.

…and then, the man at the bridge. _What_ , exactly, had inspired her to accost her shy masked man?

His voice, of course. His voice was like brandy, warm and admittedly quite intoxicating. One could get lost in his voice. Throughout her bizarre 'conversation' with the disembodied voice in Box Five, she had been impressed with the same sensations from listening to the _Ghost_. The barely tangible sense of familiarity was what had so engaged her in that conversation.

If the masked man had been sullen that morning, as he often was, Nora might not have equated him with the voice at the opera. As it turned out, he was not sullen. Instead, he had been patently amused, as if he was privy to a delicious secret. It occurred to her then that he _did_ have a secret, which was confirmed by his perfect iteration of the voice's parting words.

Perhaps Nora should have confronted the man then, accused him. That was what the heroine in an opera would have done, right? But for the life of her, she could not imagine _what_ to accuse him of. _Monsieur, you are either a man masquerading as a ghost, or a ghost cavorting around as a man. Either way, you removed me from the best seat in the house!_

Instead, she had turned away and laughed. She continued laughing until she returned home, continued laughing until she collapsed on her bed, and once there, laughed herself to sleep.

Monday was little better on her nerves, for it had brought Didier Moncharmin into her parlor, all simpering servility and blazing curiosity.

_Why_ she demurred and dismissed Moncharmin's inquiries about the 'prankster' was quite beyond her. Perhaps it was the feeling that she had stumbled into something that went far beyond her own interests, or the simple fact that she _liked_ the masked man. Regardless, she had spent the short visit as nervous and vapid as a white-gowned debutante. Moncharmin may not have noticed, but Mr. Carey gave her a knowing look that made her feel all of thirteen.

The nerves stayed with her throughout the week and made her irascible. Nora knew for a fact that she had not succeeded in endearing herself to the new property lawyer she had engaged, and had possibly prompted her landlady to start delivering day-old bread.

And now she stood, back in the place where all of her recent troubles began. The chimes began to announce the forthcoming performance. She suppressed an unladylike growl, and started up the stairs.

Tonight, she was seated alone in Box Six. It had the distinction of being directly across from the memorable Box Five, which was unoccupied for the moment. Faces were carved on the two massive pillars that flanked the box: one a grinning Dionysian, the other a serene woman with downcast eyes. The Dionysian seemed to mock Nora's unabashed examination of the empty box; the woman appeared to be embarrassed for her. She continued in spite of them.

She rather envied that Sunday-stroll-taking apparition. If she wanted a box to herself—and she always _wanted_ a box to herself—she was usually obliged to purchase six tickets. He had his empty box based on, what? Some strange sleight-of-hand?

The lights dimmed and Nora forced her attention to the stage. The curtain rose, and the first notes of an airy overture started. It was too light, too pastoral for her current mood.

By Nora's calculations, she succeeded in paying proper attention for all of three minutes.

Not to say that she usually paid better attention. Nora had often come to the opera and been distracted away from the main stage. The orchestra usually held her attention, or the stagehands waiting in the wings, if she was in a position to see them. Bit actors were especially funny when they believed themselves unobserved.

Tonight the entire cast and crew passed by unnoticed. She was fixated on Box Five.

The Flower Duet turned her to the stage for a short period of time. It had come into fashion over the past year, and Nora admitted that its popularity was fully justified.

By the beginning of the second act, Nora found that she was nearly at ease and savoring the performance appropriately. Seeing a _new_ opera was a rare thing in North America. The new Metropolitan in New York would perhaps remedy that for the Americans; Nora did not believe Ottawa would be constructing a decent opera house in the near future.

A lengthy dance section began, and Nora found her eyes drawn once again to Box Five. The shadows had deepened since she had last looked. She lifted her unused opera glasses and looked across the auditorium. Empty, utterly empty. The shadow must have been an illusion, or a trick of the stage lights. She started to force her attention back to the stage but stopped.

There was _something_ in Box Five. Through the opera glasses, she could just barely make out two glittering, glaring points of golden yellow light, shining unmistakably in her direction.

If not for the spectral color, she might have mistaken them for a pair of eyes.

________________________________________

Erik had been surprised when he learned that the Garnier would be staging _Lakmé_ , even if it was a one night engagement.

He had always imagined the relationship between the Garnier and the Comique as something akin to a fierce sibling rivalry. It was obviously a subject he lacked personal experience in, but he had watched many an opera deal with the matter. Neither theater could stand to share a spotlight and both delighted in stealing it away if need be. The idea that the Comique would willingly lend anything to the Garnier instantly caused Erik suspicion.

During the first act, he personally observed as much of the backstage goings-on as possible. He was mostly satisfied with what he saw. He doubted that any of the singers would attempt sabotage; such a move would undoubtedly cause them more pain than it would the Garnier.

As the second act began, Erik made his way to Box Five. He found _Lakmé_ to have a certain charm, though he thought _Le Roi de Lahore_ handled similar themes with a bit more panache.

He noticed her within moments of sitting down. The woman with the rosary—the woman who had dismissed the Ghost and _laughed_ at Erik— was seated in Box Six. From this distance, he could not clearly make out her features, but her bearing was unmistakable. She remained absolutely still, save the occasional turn of her head. She turned _towards him_ , Erik realized. Every few minutes, her attention would drift from the stage and invariably settle on Box Five.

Erik was sure that he was well hidden until she seemed to startle and held up her opera glasses in his direction. A moment later, she lowered them and turned back to the stage. Was it Erik's imagination, or did she shudder? _Why_ had she returned?

_To enjoy the opera, you idiot._ Erik waved away that thought—he put little stock in obvious answers. Had she come to speak with the managers? Did she intend to seek him out? If so, to what end? Time and again, her eyes drifted over to Box Five. Act Two was drawing to a close, and Erik made a decision.

________________________________________

Nora applauded as the curtain fell on Lakmé appealing to Durga to save her fallen lover. There! Two acts completed without the faintest suggestion of _unpleasantness_. She contemplated leaving Box Six during this final intermission but remained seated. Mingling with strangers had never been one of her strong points, despite gentle breeding and a decade of travel.

She wondered if she would see the man in the mask tomorrow morning. If so, would they simply carry on in their morning greetings, ignoring the _Rigoletto_ incident entirely? Perhaps that would be for the best. After all, Nora fully intended to be back home—or at least _elsewhere_ —by the New Year. She found it difficult enough to maintain friendships with those set right in front of her; at a distance, she found it impossible.

_Yes, don't worry about the masked man, don't worry about the opera—it will all be over soon enough._

Nora took the reappearance of the box keeper in the faded black dress as an ill-omen.

"Madame," the old woman seemed to be in a better mood tonight. Nora did not find this comforting. "I have a letter for you."

Nora accepted the unmarked envelope. "How can you tell?"

"His instructions were very clear—'deliver this to the lady who had been in Box Five last Saturday. You will find her in Box Six. Await her reply.'"

"May I ask who _he_ is?" The envelope contained a sheet of heavy cardstock, edged in funerary black.

"The Ghost, of course," the box keeper said, as if this was the most logical conclusion one could come to.

"Of course." The note was written in red ink and the most childish hand Nora had ever encountered.

_Madame,  
Wait for me at the far end of the Grand Foyer after Act III. _

The _command_ was unsigned.

"Did—ah—Monsieur give any reason for this?" Nora held up the card.

The box keeper's manner became stern. " _Monsieur_ is not obliged to give reasons."

"Of course." Nora turned to look back at Box Five. It was well-lit now, and still quite empty.

"Madame's reply?"

Nora did not turn to look at her. "There can be no harm in complying… I suppose."

This appeared to be the correct answer, for the box keeper politely took her leave.

________________________________________

Madame Giry knocked on the door of Box Five.

The angelic voice of the Ghost responded: " _Do enter, Madame Jules!_ "

She did, and found the box empty, as expected. "Madame read the letter."

" _And her response?_ " The Ghost's voice seemed to hover directly in front of Madame Giry, as if a voice could maintain eye contact.

"She agreed."

" _Did she indeed?_ " The Ghost sounded pleased, and Madame Giry smiled for him. 'Madame in Box Six' struck the box keeper as one of those irritating, autocratic ladies who possessed an excess of means and time. But who knew what the Ghost had in store for her, and who was she to judge? Her little Meg may not have caught the eye of an emperor, but she was now the lead of the ballet corps and had the attention of a very fine baron. All thanks, Madame Giry was sure, to her good, ghostly patron.

"Is that all, Monsieur?"

" _Why, yes, Madame—but do remember to come back after the performance to collect your tip!_ "

Was it too much to hope that the tip might include a box of English sweets?


	7. A Very Fine Vintage

Erik had always been surprised by how little Charles Garnier had involved himself with the actual construction of the Opera House.

"I can't possibly oversee everything," Garnier had protested.

"You could try to oversee something," Erik had countered. Of course, he couldn't complain much when Garnier handed off oversight of a hundred 'minor' details to his contractors—chiefly Erik.

The installation of the mirrors in the Grand Foyer had been under Erik's direct supervision. Most were unspectacular; some were made allowed for observation from inside of the wall. Two of these could be discreetly opened.

Erik made his way down to the foyer, through the walls and the unused service corridors, before the finale. The ending would have been predictable, even if Erik had not read the libretto—her grand romance thwarted, Lakmé would commit suicide rather than be torn from her unacceptable lover.

For a moment, Erik thought of the absurdity of such a situation, and then he remembered Christine's silver scissors…

Thunderous and not _wholly_ undeserved applause rang throughout the theater. Erik positioned himself behind the two-way mirror closest to the room's entrance and watched as the theatergoers began to file in. She did not waste much time in appearing, looking remarkably occupied for a solitary woman. She stayed close to the windowed side of the foyer, much to Erik's annoyance. He kept pace with her as she walked to the end of the room. She appeared to be looking at the most prominent lyre ornament on the far wall.

"Mademoiselle Farley!"

Erik froze as the woman turned around to face Didier Moncharmin. She smiled pleasantly and offered her gloved hand. "Monsieur Moncharmin."

The woman—Mademoiselle _Farley_ —was acquainted was the manager. How? For what purpose? Was this a trap? Erik remained silent and fixed on her.

"How did you find _Lakmé_?" Moncharmin asked.

"Quite lovely," she said, "it's always a pleasure to see something new." Her smile took on a brilliancy that Erik found unsettling. "And my seat was excellent."

Moncharmin gave a brittle laugh. "No ghosts?"

"Ah—you are obsessed with that, Monsieur Moncharmin," she replied. "And, no."

Erik released a breath he did not know he had been holding, but instantly became suspicious again. Moncharmin had obviously spoken with Mademoiselle Farley before on the subject of 'the ghost.' Mademoiselle met the idea with a look of benign condescension, though Erik had specifically identified himself as such. What was the likelihood she meant well?

"Is there anything else I can do for you?" Moncharmin asked. "A drink, a tour?"

"You are very kind," Mademoiselle Farley demurred, "but I am meeting a friend shortly. And I am sure you have much to attend to."

Moncharmin broke into a nauseating grin. "I loathe to leave a lady unattended."

Mademoiselle Farley replied with her own smile and an elegant flick of her fan. "I am sure he will be here shortly. Thank you again for the ticket, Monsieur."

Moncharmin was wise enough to recognize a dismissal, and Erik was amused to see the woman roll her eyes once left alone. She wandered a little closer to the mirrors and Erik made use of the opportunity.

"Mademoiselle, you flatter me!" Erik threw his voice to the midpoint between the mirror and the woman. She turned in the correct direct, face bland. "I did not know we were _friends_."

She quirked a smile, a tiny thing, very much unlike the dazzling grins she had been giving Moncharmin. "I should have known you were listening."

"I am _always_ listening."

She moved closer to the mirror, but turned around to face the room. "You have the manager in a fit."

"I am pleased to hear it."

They both fell silent for some time.

"Monsieur Ghost," she began, her tone vaguely ironic, "I assume you had a reason for… summoning me."

Did he? Ah, yes. _I fear, Mademoiselle, that your continued presence in my life will bring me great harm, or, at least, moderate discomfort. I intend to determine just how much of an inconvenience you will be._ He could hardly state that as his purpose—it seemed to go against two or three social mandates. "I should like to speak with you. Do you like port?"

She turned to face the mirror slowly. Her gaze was fixed on Erik's shoulder, though he knew she was simply looking into the reflection of her own eyes. "I prefer Madeira, as far as Portuguese wines are concerned."

"What luck!" Erik reached for the mirror's counterweight. "I have an excellent bottle—a Solera 1792. Won't you join me?"

She rolled her eyes again, just as she had at Moncharmin. "Yes, of course. Why wouldn't I have a glass of wine with a ghost?..."

He let the mirror slide open part way and locked onto her wrist. An instant was all it took for him to drag her into the wall and return the counterweight to its proper place.

Her first reaction had been to try to strike at the mask, which was foolish given their height difference. Erik caught her hand and stared down at her. She returned the eye contact, shock melting into anger and finally settling into a razor-edged wariness. She looked Erik up and down, as if calculating what sort of threat he posed to her. _A grave one,_ Erik almost said.

"What happens if I scream?" she asked. They were fighting words, but the whisper she spoke in belied them.

Erik turned her to face out of the mirror, both hands locked on her tense shoulders. It was crowded now and no one had noticed the sudden vanishing of one of their number. "Given how sound travels in that room, a few will startle and look about. But upon failing to see the lady in distress, they will return to their business. Perhaps you will attempt to scream again, but I fear you will not be given the opportunity."

She laid one hand on the glass. "I see."

"You could also try to break the mirror," Erik offered. "But without proper tools, it is nearly impossible. And really, my dear Mademoiselle, all I propose is that we indulge in a fine vintage and a little conversation."

"You don't entertain much, do you?" After an agonizing pause, she turned and took Erik's arm, as if he was any other escort. "That's quite all right, really. Neither do I."

Mademoiselle Farley was utterly silent as Erik led her through a maze of hidden corridors. She did not complain about the dark or the length of the trek, though Erik did hear her sigh on more than one occasion.

It was when they arrived at the subterranean lake that she was finally moved to speak.

"A _lake?_ " she exclaimed.

"As you can see," Erik grumbled, leading her to the little dock he had built. Soft, bluish light caused more gloom than illumination. "I live on the other shore."

"I can't even _see_ the other side," she commented.

"I assure you, it is there. Come."

She stepped onto the dock and looked at the rowboat waiting. "I don't think that boat is designed to accommodate two passengers."

It was not, Erik admitted to himself. "You will be fine." He stepped into the boat, waited for it to stabilize, and then held out his hand.

"I'm not concerned about myself," she said, gathering her skirts and allowing Erik to help her down. "But I've already ruined one evening dress thanks to the Garnier."

"And I am sure that competent seamstresses are difficult to find in Paris," Erik replied. It was somewhat comical to watch her struggle with the train and bustle of her black dress, but she seemed to settle in well enough. He sat and took the oars. Skeletons of the old pumping equipment still peaked out of the water at intervals—how foolish a man would have to be to sail these waters uninformed!

"What shall I call you?" she asked, even as she looked around the caverns.

"You know who I am," Erik replied. The blue light reflected weirdly, casting mutilating shadows over her face. Perhaps it was living so far below the world that caused beauty to distort, the isolation that made one grotesque… She turned to face him and the light diffused—and she was back to her aquiline beauty. Erik shook himself free of his previous fancy. _Living underground did not smite your nose, you silly old man._

"I can't bring myself to call you 'the Ghost,'" she said, "when I plainly see that you are quite alive."

Erik rowed in silence. They were nearly to the other side of the lake. "Call me Erik."

" _Erik?_ " she sounded incredulous.

"What? Do you have an objection to my name?"

"No, of course not, it's just— ah, as they say, _first names are for family and footmen._ "

Erik glowered across the boat at her, though she did not seem to notice. "Perhaps then, _Mademoiselle Farley_ , you oughtn't speak to Erik at all." Ah, bad habits returned so quickly.

Her eyebrows lifted. "Or… I suppose you could call me Nora. That would put us on equal footing. Erik."

_Nora._ Why had he expected her to have a French name, given the obvious Anglo nature of 'Farley?' "Very well."

They returned to silence as he navigated the boat up stream and across. A heavy mist obscured the shoreline, but Erik was well acquainted with the route. He docked the rowboat and disembarked, holding out a hand to aid Nora. What was it that Christine had said about his hands? That they smelled of death? He wondered if the odor seeped through the leather of his gloves, and, if so, did Nora notice? If she did, it was a secondary concern to maneuvering her dress out of the rowboat.

A few steps and his home came into view. It looked like an utterly ordinary house from that vantage point. A white paneled façade, a porch sconce he had not bothered to light, empty window boxes. He had designed the dwelling to look cheery—at the moment, it seemed more desolate than anything else.

Still, the parlor was warm and Nora took a seat without any obvious discomfort.

"So," she said, her tone a little teasing, "will you finally dispense with the masks?"

The question sent a shock of physical pain through Erik's body. He froze, afraid that, were he to move, Nora Farley might die. She seemed to realize that she had committed a grave mistake. Her face remained impassive, but there was genuine fear in her eyes. Erik felt himself soften slightly.

"No," he said, daring her to question him further on the subject.

She did not. "Well, then. 1792. I'm given to understand that was a very fine year. For Madeira, at least."

"It was. If you will wait a moment…" Erik nearly offered a warning not to go anywhere or touch anything, but refrained. Nora did not seem inclined to move. She simply stared at Erik, expression inscrutable save for that underlying spark of hostility that seemed to follow her.

An unfortunate dampness had settled in Erik's cellar after he had flooded out the gunpowder. It had led to many rotten potatoes, but he made sure to keep his wines safe.

He found the 1792 Madeira in its correct spot. It was a mild disappointment to open it—he thought it should be saved for a truly special occasion. Still, how likely was it that he would happen upon many more _special occasions?_ And wasn't his very first house guest in _oh so many years_ something of a special occasion? Heartened, he poured the Madeira into a decanter and returned to the parlor.

Nora had not moved. Erik decided that she looked rather quaint in her black silks and white gloves, sitting so primly on the cherry wood settee. Erik smiled at her—oh, he knew she wouldn't see the smile, and for that they could both be thankful. But a smile on the lips carried through the voice, and he imagined that she would be more compliant if she felt at ease.

"What brought you to _Rigoletto_ last week?" he asked.

"What brings anyone to the opera?" she asked.

"It varies." Erik replied mildly. "Some come to see the patrons, others to see the dancing girls. A few come to hear the music."

"I come for the story," she said, a bite in her voice.

"That explains the affection for _Pari siamo_. It defines the character effectively, though it is otherwise a sub par piece of music." He set out two crystal snifters, though he did not intend to drink anything in her company. He was wearing his white mask, which left his relatively normal lower lip and chin uncovered. In theory he could drink while wearing it, but he had no desire to test out the ability in practice. The mask impaired his sense of smell, as well, which would have been a criminal way to indulge in the rare vintage he was serving.

"I suppose," she replied, accepting the glass Erik held out to her. "I'm not what you would call a connoisseur, unfortunately, though I do thoroughly enjoy the theater. To be honest, I had not even thought to come to the opera while I was in Paris— the ticket for Box Five was a gift."

_…While I was in Paris…_ Erik's smile slipped away.

"Do you not live in Paris?"

"Not as a permanent address. I'm simply here on business."

What a novel idea! Oh, he had heard her foreign inflections, but Paris was full of transplants. For weeks, Erik had an image in his mind of the woman with the rosary, making the same Sunday trek to Notre Dame year in and year out. That was the woman that could have caused trouble for him, putting together the ghost and the walking man, and perhaps revealing the connection in true operatic fashion. But a transient? A visitor who had not even thought to come to the opera in the first place?

"Are you all right, Erik?" she asked. "You haven't even tried the Madeira, and it really is excellent."

"I was sure you lived in Paris," he murmured.

"Does it matter?" she asked. When Erik did not reply, she took a sip of her wine and continued. "I come from Canada. Ottawa, to be precise."

"And you will return there… shortly?"

"By January, I hope."

Erik cursed himself, first silently and then aloud. By her expression, Erik concluded that Nora did not speak Mazandarani, which was probably for the best. Now what? He had had a vague idea of what to do with Nora if he determined that she was a threat. Unpleasant business, of course, but necessary.

He saw little threat in her now, and that left him without a clear plan of action. He turned away from her for a moment, and sipped at the Madeira. No, drinking with a mask was awkward, regardless of the covering's construction.

She was speaking to him now, vague comments about the hour and how hard in was to hire a carriage late at night.

"It is rather too late, isn't it?" he commented, though he could not say if he was really speaking of the midnight hour. "Why don't you use the guest room?" He said. She protested, of course, as any well-bred lady would. _I wouldn't want to be an imposition… Oh, I don't want to cause you any trouble…. If you could even just tell me how to get to the surface?... I would really prefer to leave…_

Thank goodness he had managed to get the Louis-Philippe room in good order.


	8. Friendship

_It will be tragic when your arrogance ruins you._

How many times had Nora's mother said those words to her? Countless, and each time Nora had dismissed the notion. She was perhaps high-handed and a little vain, but arrogant? No, certainly not arrogant.

But what had led to Nora being locked in a door-less bedroom in a house built under the Garnier, if not arrogance? The voice—Erik!— had issued a truly laughable invitation, which she had accepted, foolishly believing that there would be no harm in doing so.

Being pulled through the mirror should have been the first sign that Nora was in well over her head. Instead, she had met that particular occurrence with the mantra of _stranger things have happened, stranger things have happened, stranger things have even happened to me._

Now, for the life of her, Nora could not recall what those stranger things had been.

The following trek through the Opera's cellars had been strange to say the least, but it was not until her foolish comment about Erik's mask that Nora considered 'danger' to be a real possibility. He had stayed silent and still, but his entire being tensed. A small part of Nora's mind—the part that was too arrogant to feel fear—commented wryly: _I have seen my own death, and it is in Erik's voice._

The moment passed, he brought out the Madeira, and Nora believed they were now beyond the point of danger.

Then came the innocuous talk of where Nora lived, prompting Erik to change manners again. She tried to extract herself from the situation. The effort proved to be in vain and Nora was soon locked away as 'his guest!' He left her with a candle, all the while lamenting God knew what in an undertone. Still, his voice! Nora could not stand to be mad at him as long as he had that voice, tragic but hypnotic all the same.

She had searched the room as best she could. She located a bedside lamp that was out of fuel and then a set of gas powered sconces. These lit the room well enough for her to clearly make out the layout and furniture. It was much the same as Erik's parlor. The pieces were all in early the Louis-Philippe style, perhaps fifty years old but wonderfully maintained. A bed—a side table—a loveseat—an overstuffed chair— and no door leading out!

She sat down on the couch and worked off her white opera gloves. They had become quite soiled during their descent to the underworld. Nora grumbled, irritated by her own musings.

_You make for a poor Persephone. She managed to confine herself to a few pomegranate seeds. You drank the entire glass of wine!_

Exasperated, she stood and examined the room again. There were banal knickknacks on most every surface, a multitude of empty flower vases, and an unwound clock on the bedside. Nora found herself drawn to the ostrich egg displayed above the fireplace. It appeared to have hit a sharp corner, knocking in a sizable hole.

A perfectly normal door led to a surprisingly modern bathroom, which included a fully stocked vanity.

As for the _other_ door, it seemed to have all but disappeared. She had a fair idea of where it was, but there was no seam on the wall. At last she found a groove on the baseboard. Sadly, no amount of pulling, scratching, or pounding seemed to have an effect.

Good God, but this was not how Nora had envisioned her Saturday evening—or, rather, her Sunday morning.

Would Erik still be going on his Sunday morning walk? Nora laughed darkly. If he did and decided to bring Nora along with him, she would push him into the Seine.

With that all together pleasing image in mind, Nora settled down onto the loveseat. It seemed that her only course of action was to wait for morning.

________________________________________

Nora awoke to a warm fire, an open door, and astonishingly beautiful music. Given her stiff neck and heavy eyes, it could not have been later than three or four in the morning. She stood, a little shaky, and ran her fingers through her hair, trying to restore some semblance of neatness. She was getting tired of abusing her best dresses and trimmings. Perhaps next Saturday—should she see next Saturday—she would refuse to go out at all. She would put on a proper nightgown at a decent hour and while her evening away with a glass of sherry and the newspaper. Or maybe needlework. Decent women stayed in on Saturdays and did needlework, didn't they?

She stepped towards the open door. It did not swing open on hinges, she realized. It slid into the wall on tracks. Were any of the walls in the Opera House _normal?_ She suspected not.

She found Erik sitting at the piano in the parlor. For once, he was gloveless. His hands appeared to be little more than bone and tendons covered by too-pale, too-thin skin. There was something in his posture that reminded Nora of their first encounter. He was hunched and miserable-looking. He stopped playing and turned to face her with great reluctance.

It turned out that his eyes really were the most astounding shade of golden amber. She had not noticed them last night, but they now glittered in the half light. They were bloodshot.

"I'm sorry," he said.

Nora simply stood at the doorway and stared at him, arms folded. Sorry. Well, that was a start…

"I should have lit the fire for you last night," he continued, before turning to pick out a few doleful notes on the piano.

Nora processed this. "The _fire?_ "

"It can get dreadfully cold down here," he said, "but I am accustomed to it. It only occurred to me a little while ago that you might be in need of some warmth." God, but how could one man's voice sound so powerfully _mournful?_

Nora felt her fingernails digging into her skin and forced her hands to relax. "I wouldn't have needed the fire if you had let me go home."

His reply to this was to heave a dramatic sigh. He continued tinkering with the piano, the seemingly random notes shaping into what might have been a dirge. "It is my lot in life. In the end, Erik is always left alone."

"I was under the impression that you were Erik," Nora grumbled, which earned her a malevolent glare. _You are at the mercy of a man who pretends to be a ghost and occasionally refers to himself in the third person. And you think that antagonizing him is the most appropriate course of action?_ She forced her irritation away. She was sure that she would have ample future opportunities for wrath and subsequent confession—now was not the time.

"You're mocking… me," he replied.

"Yes, I am," she sighed and came to sit on the far end of the piano bench. "But I don't mean much by it. I'm afraid I really don't know how to behave around a ghost."

"You know as well as I do that I am not a ghost," he said," nor an angel nor a demon — I am simply Erik. But we have been over this before."

"So we have," she said, keeping her tone light and inoffensive. "So where do we go from here?"

"It's Sunday morning," he said, as if that explained everything.

"I thought it might be."

He chuckled at some unfathomable joke. "When I heard your voice in Box Five, all I could see was the woman from Sunday morning, looking prim and devoted and furious at some unknown enemy. And I laughed! I thought, _here now is Sunday bleeding over into the rest of my life. How lovely!_ Because I was very fond of seeing you on Sundays, and I thought that perhaps it would not be a terrible thing to see you at other times. But then I saw you the next morning, attired as if it was Saturday even though it was Sunday, and I realized that there was nothing amusing in the situation."

Nora remained still, eyes fixed on Erik's profile. She imagined that the beautifully sculpted mask followed the basic lines of his face—high, strong cheekbones and a straight, patrician nose. But if that were the case, why wear the mask in the first place? "If it helps, I never expected to see _you_ any place other than on the Pont au Double." She rested her fingers lightly on his cuff. He drew away. "I was always glad to see you there, too. I even felt that way last week, after I realized that you had been the irritating poltergeist that had me evicted from my seat."

He paused for a moment, and then laughed. It was not his earlier little chuckle, but a deep, heartfelt rumble.

It was terrifying, but Nora found that she smiled in response. Soon, she laughed as well, fueled as much by anger and apprehension as merriment and relief. It begged the question—what was making _Erik_ laugh? What was on his mind, what was he feeling? Nora hadn't the faintest idea, but she laughed anyway.

"I think we have gotten off to a bad start," Nora said after the moment had passed. If only she could get Erik on her side, perhaps this would all end well.

"A start, Mademoiselle?" he asked, turning to face her more directly.

"We shared a bottle of wine. I am your… guest. We have leave to call one another by our Christian names. We both admitted that we liked to see one another on Sunday mornings. It appears to me that we're starting a friendship."

"A friendship, indeed?" he murmured.

"I think so."

Erik was quiet for a moment. "There once was a woman… and she told me the most beautiful lies."

Ah, perceptive, wasn't he? Prevarication was the hallmark of many a gentlewoman and it was a skill Nora excelled in. But Erik did not seem to be inclined to lend credence to her idea of 'friendship.'

"Many people lie, for myriad reasons," Nora replied.

"And what have you lied about?" he asked.

"Nothing I've ever been proud of." This conversation was slipping from her control—if she had ever been in control of it in the first place.

Erik's voice was amused the next time he spoke, "and perhaps that is the most _honest_ answer I could hope for." He stood up, rolling his thin shoulders. "It's already after four. Shall we leave?" Nora's puzzlement must have been obvious, for Erik continued. "I do intend on taking my morning stroll. Won't you join me?" His voice was slick and controlled again, just as it had been when he had masqueraded as the opera ghost.

Nora nodded and arose. "Let me get my gloves." They would be a terror to wrestle on by herself, but it would undoubtedly be chilly.

Erik nodded and let Nora pass him with a sweepingly theatrical gesture. She would have laughed if not for his evident sincerity. Was he mad? She couldn't be sure. She didn't think so, at least not as one usually considered madness. Her mocking words from the previous evening— _you don't entertain much_ —were coming back to haunt her. It was obvious that it was more than that. He danced through subjects and tones, from the stiffly formal to the uncomfortably intimate. It had perplexed Nora, until she finally identified the cause. _Not only do you not entertain, I believe you simply don't speak with other people at all._

He was waiting for her by the front door, wearing a heavy greatcoat that concealed his formal wear. He held out a shawl patterned in pale yellow and blue paisley. It would have been lovely on some fair blonde, Nora thought, but undoubtedly looked quite absurd on her. Vanity took a secondary place to practicality, and she was thankful he had thought to provide the shawl for her.

She decided not think about _why_ he possessed a very fine article of ladies' wear.


	9. Everything and Nothing

The boat ride was little different from the last one, that odd, ethereal blue light shimmering over the black waters of the lake. Erik stared at Nora as he rowed and from time to time she could catch a glimpse of his yellow eyes. They unnerved her more than his artisan mask or skeletal fingers ever could.

Eventually they were on shore again. Their exit was not made by zigzagging up and down through the Opera's walls again, thank God. Rather, he led her through a maze of perfectly normal service corridors and out of a perfectly ordinary gate.

"Rue Scribe," he murmured and pointed to a close-by street sign. His tone was nearly panicked, as though he had just confessed some mortal sin. Nora patted his arm reassuringly; though she hadn't a clue what it was he was so alarmed over. What were the things he had been harping on? Her residency in Paris, her presence at the opera, the fact that they saw each other on Sunday—and that he was upset by the idea that his Sundays were bleeding over into the rest of his week.

He led her through Le Marais, distracting her from her train of thought. They walked past several of the old mansions, and he seemed to have commentary on the style and engineering of each. She could barely see them in the predawn gloom, but he continually pointed out minute details that she would then strain to make out. He spoke with such ease and authority on the subject, Nora might have believed that he had built each one. It occurred to her that the seamless door in his guest room and perhaps even the opening mirror in the Grand Foyer were of Erik's own construction.

She thought then of his effortless musicality, how he had touched the piano keys with careless fingers and brought forth the most exquisite melodies.

The more she thought on it, the more she was convinced that Erik had to be a genius.

…and what did a genius in a mask fear?

No, not a genius in a mask, simply a man in a mask. What did a masked man fear?

_Revelation._

"Erik?" she whispered.

"Yes?"

"Are you afraid that I'm going to tell someone about you?" Said aloud, it sounded so foolish, but he did stop mid stride.

"Why would you say something like that?" His voice was low, dangerously so.

"I'm not going to," she replied. He actually tensed more at that statement. "I have no reason to do so, and every reason not to."

"Oh?"

"I told you I thought we might be becoming friends."

"You did," he replied. He started walking again, though he was still stiff.

"I'll tell you right now that I am not a very _good_ friend," she continued. "In fact, I'm a notoriously bad friend. But…"

"Thank you," he said. The phrase was strangled but soft, and Nora took it as her cue to stop speaking.

She wondered for a moment if she could break away from him now, walk home as if the previous evening had not occurred. Perhaps she should erase more than that—perhaps her entire stay in Paris should simply cease to be remembered.

No. She could not help feeling that, by doing so, she would be committing some grave wrong.

They came to Notre Dame.

"I'd like to go in," Nora said.

"Why?" he asked, cavalier.

 _I'm afraid I'm bound for Hell, and I'd rather not go_ did not seem to be the appropriate response. "As I'm sure you've noticed, I am in the habit of attending."

"The mass is nearly half over," he replied. He appeared quite intent to continue walking with Nora. She had kept her hand linked through his arm for the duration of their stroll. He now covered her hand quite firmly with his own.

Perhaps she had been foolish in thinking that Erik would let her walk away.

"Then I will return rather quickly, won't I?"

"If you return at all," Erik replied primly.

"Don't be silly." She smiled at him, hoping to get some sort of positive reaction. "You know _exactly_ where I'll be when Mass ends."

"Perhaps," he conceded.

"If you're so scared that I'll get lost on my way out—" better that phrase than anything to set him on edge, like _escape_ —"you could come in with me. I sit in the back."

He paused and stared into Nora's eyes. Strange, how his own eyes practically disappeared. "I will see you… at the bridge." With that, he left her in front of the cathedral and walked away.

Nora watched him leave, not quite believing what was happening. He faded out of sight and Nora absently crossed herself. She drew the unbecoming shawl over her hair and walked in.

________________________________________

The _Bell Song_ from last night's opera was haunting Erik. _Annoying_ might have been the more appropriate word. It flittered at the edge of his consciousness, reminding him that all of last night's events were true.

Damning and true.

He had forced himself to examine the events continually from the time he had locked Nora in the Louis-Philippe room until she had reappeared in the parlor. He had consumed half the bottle of Madeira in that time, which was no doubt the root of his current headache. That and _Lakmé._

_…Il marche encore au hasard, et perdu!..._

He walked a little faster, trying to stay ahead of the song.

It unnerved him how Nora had acted both last night and this morning. She shifted continually from careless bravado to desperate anxiety. Oh, the latter sentiment was always well concealed, but he saw it in her eyes. It was a familiar paradox—Erik had seen the same drama of emotions play out in the eyes of many a dying man.

Here was a woman who would not accept the courtesy blindfold, Erik was sure. Not that he was in the habit of offering them to those who fell to the tender mercies of his lasso. Still, there were men who seemed to be equipped with a mental blindfold, privately shying from the last moment of terror while giving all appearances of steady nerves and untarnished honor. It was a rare condemned person who truly faced the end with equanimity. He did not know which category Nora would fall into, but he knew she would at least put up the show.

Christine would have preferred the blindfold. Could he blame her?

They had one commonality between them, sweet Christine and sour Nora—they both knew one of Erik's secrets. Christine knew Erik's face; Nora his _profession_. He wondered which was worse off.

Christine, no doubt. Christine had not only the burden of his face, but the burden of his love. It must have been a terrible thing to be loved by a monster, though Erik thought it might be preferable to being unloved altogether.

And Nora—well, Nora might be free at this very moment! Surely she would flee, or seek sanctuary in the house of her god.

The dawn ascended, vibrant pinks and purples over the still-shaded buildings of Paris. Erik took up his post at the bridge as the cathedral bells tolled.

To his shock, she appeared. She was wrapped tightly in the shawl Erik had provided. He had purchased it for Christine, but she had never used it. It was almost sacrilegious that Nora wore it. Almost.

She looked up and stared directly at Erik. The slightest smile played at her lips.

_…L'etranger la regarde, Elle reste eblouie..._

Ah, but what was the end of that particular part of the song? Oh, yes. _He is more beautiful than all the Rajas!_ How typical.

She came to a halt a few paces in front of him. "Good morning, Monsieur."

Erik touched the brim of his hat. "Good morning, Mademoiselle."

They stayed at an impasse for some time, before Nora finally came to stand next to Erik and took his arm.  
"It seems that we usually travel in opposite directions," she commented. If Erik was not mistaken, this could well be _small talk._

"I usually return to the Opera at this point," Erik said. They stood still on the bridge, facing out into the water rather than in any particular direction.

"I usually head towards home, as well," she replied, "which is in rather the opposite direction from the Garnier."

Erik did not reply. _Let her go—she as well as promised to keep your confidence._ Then again, had not Christine as well as promised to love him? _Show me your face without fear,_ she had said.

 _Let us burn the mask,_ she had said. _Your face will never bother me again._ More than a broken promise—an outright lie.

Perhaps Nora lied as well.

Whether she was true or false, she was apparently aware of Erik's indecision. "Let's simply walk."

"No, I think not," Erik said.

"Why not? You clearly _like_ to walk."

"The hour is late for me," Erik said. "There are too many people out now."

She glanced around. "Perhaps. But we needn't let them _bother_ us."

Erik shook his head. There certainly was a carelessness that came with a normal face. It never seemed to occur to the average individual that it might be best for one to stay _hidden._ He tapped his mask. "They will bother me."

She looked up at him intently. "Will you ever let me—"

" _No._ " That was it—she was certainly coming back with him to the Opera House. She was too curious, too candid, too—

"All I am saying is that they will not bother me, ergo they will not bother you. If we walk together, that is." She took the smallest step to cross the bridge, daring Erik to either follow or drag her back.

He followed, though he did not believe her.

________________________________________

They spoke of everything and nothing.

She asked about his interest in architecture, which he was delighted to expound on. He steered the conversation carefully away from _how_ he acquired his knowledge, instead drawing her attention to the structures surrounding them. She pointed out the building she was staying in, though she made no attempt to direct their walk closer to it. Erik assured her that it was an excellent specimen in a historic neighborhood, but would she like to know about the former occupants of the street from, oh, 1755?...

The conversation eventually shifted. He learned about the business that bought her to Paris, and more about inheritance law than he would ever be occasioned to use.

She tried to draw him onto the topic of travel, but Erik did not allow himself to be prevailed on. He touched on some of his more conventional destinations, bypassing the Middle East all together. She chatted on rather passionately on the subject, having been more places than Erik might have first supposed.

Travel soon turned to opera, and Erik was thankful. They were wandering the Luxembourg Garden, arm in arm, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to do. It would have been a shame if she had attempted to force unpleasant subjects.

"The first opera I saw was _Don Giovanni_ ," Nora said. "I was in Prague with my aunt, and they were performing it at the Theatre of the Estates. I was sixteen, and at the time the main attraction in Ottawa was the _construction site_ for the Parliament buildings. The overture began and I knew I was lost forever."

Erik smirked to himself. "Tell me, did your sixteen-year-old self come for the story?"

"Admittedly, my sixteen-year-old self was more excited over my first real evening gown with a full-length skirt," she shrugged. "I also did not speak Italian, which led to a lot of erroneous speculation on my part as to what was occurring on stage. My aunt, of course, did not see fit to reveal the particulars of the story to me. But I can assure you, when I returned to Canada, I became a very dedicated student of the language, and the next time I saw _Don Giovanni,_ I was watching for the story."

"And what did you think of it?"

"I still loved the overture," she said. "Now you."

"What about me?" Erik inquired. He made no secret that he disliked the subject immensely.

"What was the first opera you saw?"

Ah, perhaps not so terrible a question. "I attended the premiere of _Rusalka_ at the Bolshoi Kamenny Theater." He chose not to mention that he had in fact snuck into the theater and spent the entire performance concealed on the catwalks. "It was unspectacular and the acoustics were appalling."

"And yet, you live under an opera house. The experience must not have been wholly repellent." she commented wryly. Erik glared at her and she smiled serenely.

"I was… compelled by it," he admitted at last. "I was also compelled to resolve to build a better theater and compose a greater score—not that either would be difficult given the bar that had been set."

"And have you succeeded?" she asked.

"Oh, yes."

She looked at him, curious, but did not pester him with further questions.

Erik's Sunday morning stroll stretched on far longer than he would have expected. By a quarter to eleven, Nora was leaning on his arm more out of exhaustion than familiarity.

"They called me Nora because people thought I should be named after my mother, who was Honorée," she said very quietly, a wholly unprompted confession. "But my father was an Englishman and a cynic, and simply couldn't hold with that sort of nonsense. ...Why did they christen you Erik?"

Again with her infernal questions. Erik had discovered that she did not mean much by them. She would say something, and then ask him something, anything. _What this or what do you think of that_ or _has that ever happened to you?_ She seldom made the mistake of twice trespassing on subjects Erik had refused to speak on—but as the day ran on, she was becoming more impertinent. Perhaps it was not impertinence. Perhaps it was merely how people spoke to one another. Regardless, he found himself leading her back to her own neighborhood.

"No one _christened_ me Erik," he replied. "It's simply a name."

"It's a nice name," she said. "Erik. It suits you."

Was he supposed to thank her for such a strange observation? Reply with a comment on her own name? He was saved by arriving at the building she had pointed out as her residence. "I believe this is where we part ways," he said.

She seemed to come out of her sleep-deprived fog. "My goodness, you've brought me home."

"What did you expect?" Erik thought his tone was perhaps a little too sharp—after all, when they had started out this morning, _he_ hadn't known where they would end up.

"I don't know. I don't think I expected anything." she replied. She disengaged her arm from Erik and turned to face him. What a sight they must have been! Her dark hair had escaped its confines in a dozen different directions, and Erik noticed for the first time how utterly strange the paisley shawl looked with her black silk dress. "Thank you, Erik."

He looked at her intently, searching her face for any sign that fatigue had slipped over into madness. "Whatever for?"

"For the most interesting evening I have had in years," she replied. "I suppose I'll see you again next—"

"It's _Don Giovanni_ next week," Erik found himself saying.

"Pardon?"

"The next performance. It's _Don Giovanni_ —which I now know you to be quite fond of." Erik decided that he had clearly been out of doors too long. The sunlight was going to his head. "You are welcome to be my guest next Saturday." Oh, yes, the sun was making him mad. He found himself using his most enchanting tones, willing her to agree. "It seems only fair, considering that I cut short your previous stay in Box Five."

She was staring at him, wide-eyed. "I'd love to."

She agreed! A perfectly normal woman had agreed to be his guest, without the use of coercion or threats or…

"…but I'll be in Marseilles next week."

Erik went cold again. Ah, always women and their lies. "Marseilles?"

"It turns out that my uncle had a number of investments tied up with the local banks there," she said. "I'll be returning Saturday, but my train isn't scheduled to arrive in Paris until nearly midnight. I fear the Don will already be in Hell by that time."

"I see," Erik replied. Even her eyes lied this time, as she bemoaned the unpleasant business that awaited her in Marseilles. One could _nearly_ believe she was not thrilled at the prospect of escaping Erik's company.

They were back to uncomfortable silence. Erik longed to walk away, as quickly as could be, and return to the safe sanctity of the Opera House…

"I'll see you on Sunday, of course," she said, lightly touching Erik's cuff as seemed to be her habit. "If you don't mind, perhaps we should go back to the Luxembourg Garden. I'd like to see it all."

How well she deceived, Erik thought. She gave such specific details, spoke with such sincerity. Did she sing? If she did, she should surely be on stage. The world would weep at her command. "Perhaps," Erik heard himself say, cautious and cold.

She smiled at him, brighter than the sun. "Well, then. Good day, Monsieur."

Erik bowed over her hand, ever so correctly. "Good day, Mademoiselle."

She went inside and Erik left for the Garnier.

It almost felt as if he had not been deceived at all.


	10. Interlude

He had never expected to see her again.

Yet standing in the parlor of the little flat on the Rue de Rivoli, like a vision from heaven, was Christine Daaé.

No, Nadir corrected himself, the Countess de Chagny.

She was lovelier than Nadir had recalled. The same elegant Scandinavian features remained, the exquisitely delicate coloration, and graceful mien. Pain and fatigue had lined her face throughout their previous acquaintance, but these were now smoothed away. She looked, if not _happy_ , than at least quite content. Nadir was glad for this.

"I hope I am not intruding." She held out her gloved hand with such ease that Nadir found it hard to believe she had not been born into her aristocratic role.

"Not at all, Madame," Nadir replied.

Darius brought tea and a plate of sweets, and Nadir found himself speaking with Christine as if she was any other mild acquaintance. Weather and travel, new literature and tepid scandals. They did not mention the theater.  
Inevitably, despite Nadir's best intentions, they touched on the subject of _him_.

"I did not see the advertisement in the _Époque_ until several weeks after the fact," she said. "We were in Sweden at the time; Parisian newspapers are a rarity there. I could not quite believe it- _Erik is dead_."

"It must have been… a relief," Nadir commented. It had been for him, though the relief was mingled with something like regret and something like grief.

"A relief?" the Countess asked philosophically. "Yes, I suppose it was. But it was also… _Erik_." She whispered his name, as if he could still hear her, still find her.

"Exactly so."

A minute passed as they both sipped the cardamom spiced tea. "I did not wear his ring," she said quietly. "I felt rather wicked at first, but I could not."

"You could hardly have been expected to," Nadir replied. "Even Erik—I do not think even _he_ really expected you to."

She dismissed the comment with an airy wave of her hand. "I do not know what he expected. But—I want to keep the _other_ promise."

Oh, unhappy woman! Nadir lamented for her. To be free, and yet still beholden to that monster. It stuck him as strange that two individuals as wholly unrelated as the Countess de Chagny and himself could have such commonality. Though perhaps it was not so surprising, if one considered that the bridge was Erik, and Erik had been the most singular individual on earth.

"I think it important that he have a proper, Christian burial," Christine continued.

"I am not sure that Erik would have counted that as important. I never knew him to care much for any god."

"He _did_ want to be married in the Church of Madeleine," she protested.

Nadir chose not to reply to that point. "What does your husband say?"

"Raoul is away." She laughed. "Ah, my dear Raoul. You know, everyone tried to prepare me for being the wife of a count. No one tried to prepare me for being the wife of a _sailor_. I thought perhaps that he would have given up the sea, just as I gave up the stage—but I was wrong."

"He is still young," Nadir intoned. "He may yet be drawn to land."

"Oh, do not mistake me! I would never begrudge him his career," she lost her air of gaiety and set down her teacup. "It _helps_ him, you see. It helps steady him and it helps him forget."

"Forgetting is, at times, the best course of action."

"Ah!" She smiled again, albeit grimly. "You try to dissuade me, Monsieur. But I cannot be. For I recall this unmet duty every time I hear his voice, and hear his voice whenever I sing—and I will sing until the day I die."

The memory of Christine singing— _inhabiting_ —Marguerite was still fresh in Nadir's mind. "As well you should, Madame."

She leaned across the table and touched Nadir's fingers with a feather-light hand, earnest as only a child could be. " _Will_ you help me?"

Being the closest thing to what Erik could call a friend had never been easy. Nadir always felt that there had been some immense score to settle between them, but had never been sure who it was in favor of. Perhaps this one last service would finally bring them into equanimity, and perhaps Nadir's soul would rest easier for it.

"Of course, Madame," he sighed. "Of course."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a note- I've never read Susan Kay's novel. Therefore, my Persian has no real relation to her Persian. However, I've decided to use the name Nadir, as it appears to be the most common and acceptable thing to call the good Daroga. (It does seem to suit him rather well!)


	11. Prayers on the Wind

_Monsieur Manager,_

_I have reviewed the preliminary schedules for the 1885 spring season, and am well pleased with the selections. For the most part, they are suited to the current strengths of the company. I am glad to see that M. Richard is, at least, still concerning himself with this aspect of the Opera. For while M. Richard is a very poor composer, he does recognize the mechanics of music and knows how to 'oil the machine' as they say._

_Of course, as I am sure you are well aware, the gravest concern of the moment is procuring a new soprano to headline. The idea of calling in 'special guests' for 'limited engagements' was no doubt clever, but the public is clearly tiring of your inconsistency. None of the current chorus members or understudies are yet seasoned enough to bear the burden of the Garnier reputation. Furthermore, none of the names you have listed for consideration are suitable._

_I therefore suggest, most humbly, that you apply to Dores Crespo-Fonseca, who played a lovely Gilda in the recent production of Rigoletto. She will do quite nicely in a number of the upcoming roles— though perhaps 'special guests' would be better suited to play our Normas and Desdemonas. Though, if Senhora Crespo-Fonseca gave proper attention to strengthening her lower register, I could see her one day tackling such choice roles._

_As a final note, allow me to thank you for showing such charming consideration for my person, in that you have refrained from selling my box. It may seem like rather a trifle, but I am most indebted to you._

_Your Most Humble and Obedient Servant,_

_O.G._

_Postscript: I took the liberty of reviewing the accounts of the Opera, and have found that M. Morel has been padding certain expenditures in the most outrageous fashion. I have marked these abuses for your consideration._

Didier read and reread the letter a dozen times, searching for some hidden meaning in it. He found none.

He observed the stationery, which was very fine cotton, with his uncle's magnifying glass. He examined the envelope, which showed the letter had had been posted from the Boulevard des Capucines post office—a minute's walk from the Garnier! The wax seal on the envelope was only noteworthy in that it was remarkably plain. The wax had been indented with little more than some blunt object, rather than a signet.

He returned attention to the content of the letter. The Ghost had chosen their new soprano—why? To kidnap her, as the tales said about the Daaé girl? The Ghost had thanked him for keeping Box Five available. Didier did not wish to be reminded of that, as it meant that one of the premier boxes in the house was perennially not bringing income.

At last, he called for the main accounts book to be brought to him, and found numerous red marks on the more recent pages. A brief perusal demonstrated that the accountant Morel was indeed embezzling from the Opera, though Didier would hardly call it 'in outrageous fashion.' Indeed, if Monsieur le Ghost had not seen fit to point it out, the tiny additions would have likely gone unnoticed…

And what did _that_ mean? The Ghost—the damn Ghost with his precious grand tier box and quarter-of-a-million franc extortions—was trying to be _helpful?_

Didier massaged his temples for a moment. Oh why, oh why, oh why had he agreed to this job? His private income was not large, but was suitable for a careless bachelor or even a moderate family. Wouldn't he have liked that? A nice country house with a nice girl and a nice—

"Monsieur Moncharmin?" Monsieur Remy appeared at his door, "a reporter from _Le Figaro_ was hoping to have a word with you have the _Lakmé_ production."

Oh, yes. That was right. If Didier lived in a nice country house, he could be quite guaranteed that his opinions would account for very little and with very few people.

Escaping _that_ fate was reason enough to do the Opera Ghost's bidding. For now, at least.

________________________________________

The mask was beautiful. Perhaps not in terms of aesthetics, for it portrayed unremarkable features, but certainly in execution.

It was the mask Erik had crafted as he wooed Christine, a mask to make him look like everyone else. Pliable flesh-toned leather, of the thinnest and finest variety, was contoured and seamed to connect at various points on Erik's face. With the use of a mild adhesive, the mask would respond to his own expressions. The eyebrows—he was very proud of them—were carefully constructed, strand by strand, from clippings of Erik's own hair. The removable moustache was likewise painstakingly arranged. And while it would not, perhaps, pass close inspection, anyone he might encounter on a morning stroll would be fooled.

Erik pondered last Sunday's walk with Nora. To say it had been nerve-wracking was not an understatement. The entire time, Erik had been on edge—even as he had laughed along with Nora, even as he had indulged in silly observations of sub-par public sculptures, even as he had not-quite-almost enjoyed himself. It was not so bad for the first little while of their walk. At that point, he was simply too-conscious of Saturday's events and too-conscious of Nora's hand on his arm. That had been miserable in its own tolerable way, but nothing compared to the edge of panic that had accented the rest of the walk.

It was only logical, he supposed. Erik always made sure to be safely ensconced in his Opera house before the hordes of Parisians made the streets hellish. Nora, of course, didn't seem to mind. She insisted that all of the attention they attracted was because of her evening attire. Erik had humored her in that, but he was _fully aware_ of every glance directed towards his face.

Not his _face_ , of course—the mask. And here was Nora, insisting that she would see him next week and walk with him again! Somehow, he could not bear either option: he could not bear to present himself as such a spectacle again, and he could not bear to refuse Nora's invitation.

Erik did not need reminding that his experience with women was limited. Still, he had read and observed and engaged in that little debacle with Christine. He knew that some women would dissolve into tears if their wishes were refused, others would turn to scornful vengeance. And Nora would… what? Tears he could not see, and unfounded rage he could not see.

…then again, Erik could also not see how walking with him was possibly her true wish. He was very likely imposing himself on her, which was a road he did not wish to travel down again.

But then again—Erik was not in love, and Nora would soon be gone. She had presented him a rare opportunity, the chance to sharpen his personal skills with little inconvenience to himself or others. Had he not vowed to _continue living?_ Had he not even thought that he might attempt to learn how to _live well?_ Perhaps, the more he walked and chatted with an average woman about inane things, the more equipped he would be to fulfill that vow.

But for now, his masterwork mask needed to be put to the test. It was a torture of ten different varieties putting it on—chiefly that Erik was forced to make use of the vanity in the Louis-Philippe bathroom. It was the only mirror in the house, and he was obliged to see what he was doing.

To say that he had made peace with his reflection was a lie. He could look on his bare face without the tears and weak stomach that seemed to afflict the rest of humanity. But there was still disgust in his heart, and he mocked the idea that he had ever, _ever_ believed that Christine did not fear his face.

He pressed and smoothed the mask, paying special attention to how it contoured around his jaw line and cheekbones. The edges of the mask were slightly too prominent; stage makeup would be needed to help them disappear. A wig would also be a beneficial addition. Even his afflictions were not in line with ordinary men, Erik reflected. He had not lost his hair in any particular pattern—it had merely thinned out all over, leaving him with black gossamer in place of true hair.

With the wig in place, he returned to the vanity—used first by Christine and probably most recently by Nora.  
His observations were detached as he examined his handiwork. An adjustment here or there, notes for his next application of the mask.

"I am a handsome fellow, am I not?" Erik muttered to the mirror.

No, not handsome, but imminently suited for going out in the daylight—which was exactly his intention on this Monday morning.

________________________________________

It was mostly to see if she was lying. That is to say, Erik _knew_ Nora was lying, but to what extent? She had said that she was leaving for Marseilles—was she really? Or was it simply an escape from the Opera Ghost? (But then way bother with Sunday morning?...)

She had not mentioned _when_ she would be departing, but Erik made some assumptions given what he knew of her character and plans. If she was returning Saturday, and if her business was as complicated as she made it sound, she would assuredly be leaving today. Given the careless way she spoke about money (never actual money, simply things that required money), he could guess that she would be taking one of the finer passenger trains. That, coupled with her inclination for early hours, led Erik to assume that she would be taking the nine-fifteen train out of Paris.

At first, he had thought of staying near the train station, which was close enough to the Garnier. But how easy it would be not to see her, if she was there at all. He wanted to _know_ if she was leaving or not, not simply _guess_ at it.

Her rented home was near the Rue de la Harpe, in one of the Louis XV buildings. The road was narrow and the buildings cast deep shadows over the quiet street. Erik could not have selected a less conspicuous hiding place himself. He took up a post with a view of her door at eight o'clock.

It was not long before a hired cab came to a stop before her home and the door opened.  
An older man appeared at the door, ushering out two houseboys carrying a trunk. The man spoke with the driver and then returned to the door.

Ah, there she was. Nora was dressed in a trim hunter green suit and a veiled hat, a traveling outfit, if Erik had to guess. There was one point in her favor. The older man approached her and started to speak. Erik could not quite hear what was being said. He came closer to them, still hidden. He was surprised to realize that the man was not speaking in French, which he had conversed with the cabdriver in.

English, Erik realized. Of course it was English. Erik had never devoted much time to the study of the language. He had always found it to be rather ugly to his ear, lacking the musicality of Italian or even Persian. He read it, of course, as he read many languages, but the spoken words sounded awkward and barely intelligible to him.

Nora started speaking. Erik could not say that the language itself sounded any better coming from her, but he was intrigued by her voice. She had always sounded a bit off in French, like a dramatic soprano trying to sing a lyric role. Erik now found that to be a very accurate analogy. Her English was spoken in lower, darker tones which suited her voice far better.

Their conversation was mostly lost on him—but the words _train, Marseilles, Saturday_ all stood out. The old man seemed to be trying to persuade Nora of something, which she dismissed carelessly.

At length another woman exited the house, dressed in plainer garb than Nora and holding a small suitcase. The three conversed for a short period of time before Nora evidentially put an end to the discussion and walked towards the carriage. The older man had one last, seemingly stern word for Nora. She replied to it by embracing the man, who patted her back once and rolled his eyes. Erik almost laughed at that. It was an identical gesture to Nora's; an unforgivable breech of etiquette that was only made when they thought they were unobserved.

In a minute, the cab rolled off, in the direction of the train station.

So that was one lie Nora was not guilty of.

Erik followed the carriage, though not with the intention of catching up to it or heading to the train station. He could feel the adhesive of his mask starting to give, much to his frustration. It had taken him long enough to find ingredients that did not irritate his skin—now, to need to reformulate! There was still business to attend to in the Opera, and Erik did not want to take the time to return to his home and carefully remove and clean this mask first. He patted at it with the tips of his fingers, ensuring it stayed secured for a while longer.

His first stop at the Garnier was Didier Moncharmin's office. He was gratified to spy, through a slip of moving wall, that Moncharmin was reading Erik's letter. The boy mumbled under his breath, reading aloud and commenting on what he read. Nonsense mostly— _Gilda, what is a Gilda? How shall I fit 'La Crespo-Fonseca' on the playbills? Morel? Not Morel!_

It was most amusing. Most gratifying, however, was how _well_ Moncharmin seemed to take it all. He dealt with the misappropriation of funds that Erik had found in a concise manner and put the letter in with his critical correspondence.

Oh, he also moaned a little and pulled at his hair, but Erik thought that a fair trade. Erik felt the mask dislocate a little more when he smiled. It would be best to speed his errands along. He dispensed with the least important, choosing to place a letter in Box Five for Madame Giry and be done with it.

He paused before sliding the pillar open. Someone was most assuredly in Box Five. It would not be the cleaning staff at this hour, nor the boxkeeper. Suddenly he heard a quiet mumble.

" _Allah, forgive our dead and alive, our present and absent, our young and old…_ "

Ah, that was a familiar voice—familiar like any old cut that refused to heal. The Daroga was in his box, mumbling the prayer for the dead! Erik nearly laughed at him. He had sent word of his impending demise nearly two years ago, and now—only _now_ —was the man getting around to acknowledging it?

" _Whomever among us You took life from, let him die with faith…_ " At this line, Erik heard his old friend snort and then sigh.

Erik was nearly tempted to speak out, to taunt Nadir. _Since when has Erik been Muslim? Perhaps I missed that part of my life…_ The words sounded a bit hollow in Erik's own mind. A man was actually… mourning for him? Commemorating him, in the only way he knew how.

It was almost touching.

The Daroga repeated the takbir, and then stood silent in Box Five. Erik stood silently with. At length, the Daroga left—and Erik did as well. For better or worse (but most likely for the better), that part of Erik's life was now truly dead. Smoke on the pyre, and prayers on the wind.


	12. At the Seaside

_Daniel,_

_You notice, of course, that I do not start out this letter by bestowing you the typical appellation of 'Dear Daniel.' Quite simply put, you are anything but 'dear' to me at the moment. I have been in France since June, first with the assurance of relief being sent in September, and then in December, and now you say February? Honestly, my dear (strike that) cousin, I find it hard to believe you are so wholly indispensable to the Ambassador._

_I almost loathe to inform you that I am making decent progress. It has not been easy. I always thought the Americans were obnoxious to conduct business with, but I now look on those prudish parvenus with a bit more fondness. I swear, Frenchmen are_ insufferable. _They simper and scrape and give all sorts of polite attentions—and do_ absolutely nothing _. It is almost tempting to shove off these matters onto Mr. Carey. Indeed, if he was younger, I might well do so. As you know my preference for handling my own affairs, this is no doubt a proper testimony to the _profound irritation_ I find in the mess we refer to so lightly as 'Uncle Christian's Estate.' It is Uncle Christian's Labyrinth, Uncle Christian's Den of Infamous Chaos, Uncle Christian's Personal Level of Hell—it is _not_ an estate, by any proper definition._

_To illustrate my point, I am sending you three documents pertaining to the, not one, but two clipper ships in our Uncle's possession. I would like to point out that the small bit of commerce he used these ships for employs nearly forty men. I have arranged a continuing business as best as I can. A few of the senior employees are hoping to buy us out, but it will take time for the funds to come together. We might end up at a slight loss, but I think it will be worth it to eliminate a possibly huge liability. Please reply to this point, if no other._

_In other news, I am the same as always. Given that you are still in Canada rather than here, I know that the same sentiment holds true for you._

_Not Affectionately, I remain your cousin,  
Nora Farley_

________________________________________

If Nora had been occasioned to come to Marseilles for any other reason than Christian Tremblay's estate, she would have enjoyed her visit immensely. The city was beautiful and Nora had an absurd fondness for the seaside. It was a pity that her time was consumed with bankers and lawyers instead of ocean breezes. Nora was silently repeating _Saturday, Saturday, Saturday—I can go home on Saturday!_ It did not matter that Paris was hardly home, or that the frustrations of the estate would follow her there. It would still be an escape from the annoyances particular to Marseilles.

The greatest annoyance was likely the _society_ Nora was enduring. It turned out that her otherwise reclusive uncle had been something of a local socialite. Thanks to this legacy, every night since her arrival had involved some tedious supper in the company of tedious people. Paris had never looked so good. She had managed to keep a remarkably low profile there, avoiding invitations of all sorts and relishing the anonymity. _That_ was perhaps the main joy of travel— being allowed to lose one's identity in favor of blending in with the local color. It was a shame she would never have the chance to experience that in Marseilles.

Thursday night had been her largest engagement of the visit—a formal supper and 'little dance for the young people' held by some well-respected barrister. Nora had demurred that she was not young and did not dance. But, blast it; the man had deceived her in fine legal fashion by promising to introduce her to the best property manager in the area. The introduction _was_ made, Nora conceded, but had the unfortunate ramification of waltzing twice with a florid man who conformed to the description of 'young' even less that Nora.

By the time Nora stumbled back into her hotel suite, her new silk shoes were ruined, her hairpins were falling out, and it was possible that she now owned several acres of prime vineyard land. She really couldn't be sure.

"Miss Farley!" Perrine was far too perky for midnight. "Did you have a nice evening?"

Nora tossed her coat onto a chair carelessly. Someone would pick it up. She really did not care who. "It was service a la russe. Sixteen courses." A vision of oysters waltzing suddenly assaulted Nora and made her feel sick. She made it to her vanity and sat down gratefully. "These hairpins are threatening to decapitate me. Get them out."

Perrine tsked at Nora, but obligingly started to take down the elaborate coiffure she had constructed a few hours previous. She chattered on about absolutely nothing, as was her wont. Perrine had been Nora's attendant since 1880, and over all provided fine service. She traveled light and dealt with Nora's toilette efficiently. A little impertinent chattiness could be forgiven. And given that the girl was fast approaching twenty-four and quite pretty, Nora doubted that she would have use of her services for much longer. Surely some Quebecois boy back home found her loquaciousness endearing.

Nora ignored her in a way that would have been unforgivably impolite if they were of equal station. She allowed the one-sided conversation to fade into the background, and mindlessly watched Perrine brush out her hair. The girl was of the hundred-strokes school of thought, and Nora couldn't find the energy to stop her. She idly wondered if she ought to do anything about the silver that was starting thread through her hair. A section near her right temple was lightening at an alarming rate. She supposed there was little point in concealing it. Her age was what it was, and her vanity could no doubt survive the blow…

"Oh, and a delivery did come while you were out."

Nora glanced up. "Where from?"

"Marnier Lapostolle," Perrine replied.

"Good, good. It’s bottles—make sure they're packed properly for the train. I would really rather not have orange liqueur spilt over my shoes."

"Should I label them at all?"

"There's one for Daniel," Nora yawned suddenly and rubbed her eyes. "And one for Erik."

"Pardon?"

"Erik. E-R-I— I actually don't know how he spells it. With a 'c,' I suppose. That's how Frenchmen usually spell it, right?"

Perrine nodded and became a little demure. "I don't believe I am familiar with Monsieur Erik."

If the hour had been slightly earlier, or Nora slightly more alert, she would have brushed off the question. Instead she replied, "he's the masked man."

"Your masked man from the bridge?" Perrine asked, sounding far too excited. Nora has protested before that _the_ masked man was not _her_ masked man, but Perrine was a silly girl who still believed in grand romances and fairytale princes. The man in the mask captured her fancy from the first, idle mention Nora had made of him. Erik, Nora was sure, would not be amused.

"I suppose."

"And his name is Erik?"

Nora finally batted away the hair brush and started tugging at the dress buttons within her reach. "That's what he told me."

"Do you think he's handsome under the mask?"

Nora shrugged and hoped that Perrine would not press for an answer. Of course, an answer was _not_ required—a simple _that will do, Perrine_ would have been sufficient. But the question was valid. Nora could not deny that she had wondered about Erik's mask more than once. At length she said, "I don't believe he is."

"You don't? Such a shame."

Nora found herself dozing off, overtired from weeks of activity. Perhaps she should simply leave Marseilles on Friday. She could be home in time to send some little communiqué to Erik and see if the invitation to the opera was still available. It was _Don Giovanni_ , after all. Surely Nora could put up with Erik for a few hours for the sake of a little Mozart. The thought brought a smile to her. She actually found Erik to be perfectly charming company as long as he wasn't attempting to lock her in a guest bedroom. Stiff, awkward, and a little pixilated, but decent company all the same.

She ignored the fact that she certainly wouldn't be able to escape the seaside early, and fell asleep to the idea of Erik singing a strange, tenor version of Méphistophélès.

________________________________________

Nadir had protested repeatedly that Christine did not need to pay him the attention of having her carriage, complete with the de Changy crest, come around to pick him up. He had even brought up the question of delicacy, which Christine had artlessly brushed away.

"You are a friend of the family," Christine insisted, "Raoul and I agree that we are forever in your debt. The least we can do is drive you to the opera!"

Nadir had also objected to _that_ —attending the Garnier's production of _Don Giovanni_ as the Countess's guest. Surely the opera held too many painful memories; surely they need not spend hours being reminded of the past. Again, Christine was firm.

"I _like_ the opera—I _love_ the opera," she said, "and nothing can change that. I also think it an appropriate prelude to our endeavor." How matter-of-fact she sounded! How determined! Nadir had to admire her: she had faced fire and come out as tempered steel.

"I do not think tonight will be our best opportunity to go down to the house," Nadir confided, as the carriage rolled towards the Palais Garnier. "It will be too difficult to slip away unobserved."

She had inclined her head slightly. "It is for the best. To be honest, I simply wanted to see this place again— before seeing to _his_ burial."

"Have you decided what you wish to do with the… remains?"

After a long silence she replied, "Perros." Her tone suggested to Nadir that this location was significant for one reason or another, but he did not think it right to inquire.

"I fear there will be many questions asked," Nadir pointed out.

A smile played at the corner of her mouth. "A few, perhaps. But not many, Monsieur. Look—we are here!"

The Garnier, grand and brilliantly lit appeared before them. It was an imperious beauty, Nadir thought, uncaring about those in it or around it. The world attributed that to Charles Garnier, but Nadir knew better.

He suspected, after seeing her wide eyes, that Christine knew better, as well. The look disappeared as she descended from the carriage. She took Nadir's arm graciously. "Well, then, Monsieur Daroga—" Nadir tried not to wince at the knowledge that she surely had picked up that title from Erik— "Let us listen to Mozart. He shall only make us weep."

"Indeed, Countess."


	13. Don Giovanni

Erik had attended the Tuesday evening opening of _Don Giovanni_. He had spent the entire show trying to imagine what it looked like to Nora. It was obvious that she was fond of that particular opera, though she had responded coyly when Erik had asked her just what she thought of it. Perhaps it was simple sentimentality, in the same vein as Erik's affection for _Rusalka_. He really rather loathed the work, but it _was_ the first performance he had attended.

Or perhaps she related to it on some other level. Had she been a Zerlina at some point in her life? An Anna, an Elvira? God forbid that she might be a sort of Giovanni! Erik found that he unequivocally disliked casting Nora in any of those roles, and so resolved not to think of her again until Sunday.

He had mostly succeeded on that score. He spent his week searching every aspect of the opera for improvement opportunities, playing the occasional prank on Moncharmin, doing the odd bit of maintenance or composition.

Then Saturday had dawned and he found his thoughts irrevocably settled back on her. In a day or even less, Erik was expected to meet with Nora, escort her, converse with her— _entertain her._ The thought sent him into a spiral of anxiety. Perhaps it would be best if, when they met on the Pont au Double tomorrow, Erik simply walked by her. _Good morning, Madame._ Not even _Good morning, Mademoiselle—_ Madame, as if they had never really spoken, as if he knew nothing more about her than she attended Mass at Notre Dame.

He imagined her response. She would probably _laugh_ at him, which would be grating. She might even try to catch up to him and steal his arm again. And then the look on her face when she realized that Erik would not acknowledge her: confusion, probably. A little anger at being slighted by such a worthless man? She would stand for a few minutes, watch Erik disappear, and then move on and out of Erik's life.

Well. Perhaps it would be for _the best,_ but the more Erik thought of taking such a course, the less he could stand to follow through with it. With that one action on his part, she would have just as well as seen behind his mask. A graceless monster, one who dismissed women and broke promises. She would loathe him, as assuredly as if she had gazed upon his wretched face.

No, Erik could not stand for such a thing.

It was in this spirit that Erik found himself attending another showing of _Don Giovanni_ on Saturday night. As much as the show might bring Nora to mind, it might distract him from the fact that he was mere hours away from actually _seeing_ her. He maintained the vague hope of having a relaxing evening.

________________________________________

Didier had sequestered himself in his office on Saturday evening, intent on clearing away the excess of paperwork that had been accumulating on his desk. He was still dressed in his tails, ready to make a managerial appearance at any moment. He doubted this would be necessary—Richard would surely be able to be the sole face of the company for the night.

His expectations were doomed to be thwarted. Just minutes before the performance began, Remy began knocking at Didier's door with the most odious fervor.

Didier admitted his wide-eyed secretary. "What is it?"

"It's the _Countess!_ "

" _The_ Countess?" Didier set down his pen and gave Remy his best imitation of Armand Moncharmin's humoring condescension. "Paris is full of Countesses. You'll need to be more specific."

"The Countess de Chagny," Remy said, as if this was the most important piece of information relayed since the Gospels. "Christine Daaé!"

Didier did not allow himself to show any of the surprise, nor the deep curiosity, that this revelation incited in him. "And?"

"And what, Monsieur Moncharmin?"

"And what is the Countess de Chagny doing?"

"She is here to see the opera!"

"Just as one might expect," Didier replied, serene. "And she has been seated?"

"In the best available box."

"And I assume that her every need has been taken care of?"

Remy's confusion was now plainly evident. "Why, yes."

"Good. Good. Perhaps I will stop by her box during the intermission to personally welcome her." Didier picked up his pen again and returned his attention to his paperwork. "Thank you for telling me, Remy."

"Of course, Monsieur…" the secretary departed from Didier's office. As soon at the door was firmly shut, Didier allowed himself to pause and consider the situation.

The infamous Daaé girl! The chorus girl with the voice of an angel—a veritable Helen of Troy, if the stories were to be believed. Even if one removed the absurd rumors that she was an object of affection for the Opera Ghost, it was still commonly believed that it was a rivalry for her affections that led to the death of the former Count de Chagny at the hand of the _current_ Count de Chagny. Of course, such hearsay had never been substantiated, and Raoul de Chagny had been officially and socially acquitted of all foul play. However, it was also true that the Count and Countess had spent the first year or so of their married life abroad, and even now the Count was out at sea and not in Paris…

It was worth remembering that, no matter what scandals had once touched her, Christine Daaé was now the Countess de Chagny. And the de Chagny family had a long and distinguished history of patronizing the Opera.

Didier would certainly be paying her a visit during the intermission.

________________________________________

Erik stayed in Box Five after the curtain fell on the second act, fairly content with himself and the world.

He had often thought that he would have gotten along splendidly with Mozart, for the man's sense of humor had been vile. To call _Don Giovanni_ a comedic opera was one thing; the change from the damning Commendatore scene to the lilting, moralizing epilogue was something else entirely! How different Mozart's _Don Giovanni_ was from Erik's own _Don Juan Triumphant_!

It was rare that Erik thought of his opera. It was undoubtedly a master work, and could have, if the world was kind, become a sensation to eclipse _comic, melodramatic_ _Don Giovanni._ Alas, the world was not kind and so the world would never hear _Don Juan Triumphant._

He wondered for a moment what Nora would think of _Don Juan Triumphant._ Oh, she was hardly a connoisseur, but she was more _invested_ in the art than the average listener. The story, she had said, she was interested in opera for the _story_ and for the characters _._ Well! What would she do with his Don Juan, who made Rigoletto look like the doddering fool he was? The entire score seared—it burned the soul but denied escape. It terrified and entranced. Christine had even thought—really believed, he was sure—that she could _love him_ for _Don Juan Triumphant_ alone!

He had best throw the entire composition into the lake! Even if the world was ready for it, Erik knew he never would be. Share his _Don Juan_? Allow it into the public forum to be ridiculed, abused, debased—and misunderstood? There would be those who would misunderstand out of genuine ignorance, which pained Erik. But there would undoubtedly be those who listened, and _heard_ , and _understood_ and _chose_ to turn their backs on its true meaning. _That_ would be unforgivable.

He pulled out his watch. It was a quarter to midnight. Nearly Sunday at last! Surely he could survive what the day held in store for him.

He vacated Box Five and took the longest route away from the main auditorium. He walked the hidden pathways around the back of the stage, pausing on occasion to listen to snips of conversations and gossip.

"Well, I would rather like to visit my old dressing room."

Erik froze. That voice— _that voice._ _Her_ voice. _Christine's_ voice. He strained to hear.

Moncharmin replied, "of course, Countess—if you would like, I could personally escort you."

"I think I remember the way," she said, a note of the coquette in her tone. "And Monsieur le Daroga has been gracious enough to be my protector for the evening."

Christine _and_ Nadir? Whatever was _going on?_

Erik thought his heart would surely fail him as he raced towards Christine's former dressing room. It was used but occasionally now, but did not have a permanent name attached to it.

The last time Erik had gone there was just after the _incident_. He had fixed the mirror and permanently severed the mechanism that had allowed it to tilt and move. At the time he had replaced it with his own special type of two-sided mirror out of some twisted desire to keep everything _just the same._ As if that, and that alone, could negate how terribly, terribly wrong the entire affair had gone…

He stood still staring into the dark, empty room.

At length, the door opened—Christine swept in, followed by the Daroga _._ He lit the lamps in the room and looked at Christine. She inclined her head fractionally and Nadir departed.

She stood in the center of the room, looking more _regal_ than Erik had ever seen her. She was dressed in champagne silk and pearls, as befitted her station; her bearing was that of a prima donna. Erik had never seen her so elegant, though he had seen her more beautiful.

It was painful— violently, viciously, brutally painful— for Erik to stand so close to her.

Her next actions were slow and deliberate. _Choreographed_ was the word that came to mind. She found her position in front of the mirror just as she might have found it on the stage. She steadied herself, corrected her posture, regulated her breathing.

She sang.

Erik was unmoving, unbreathing as she began Marguerite's Jewel Song. _Faust!_

Her technique was rusty but her voice was still unparalleled. It was shown to great advantage with the light, lyric song, but Erik knew how much more she was capable of. This little aria had not been the part of _Faust_ they had spent so many hours perfecting. No, their focus had been the final duet and trio—the declaration of love between Marguerite and Faust, followed by Marguerite's salvation. Her voice had lent _that_ passage such a majestic beauty that one really could have believed that angels had descended to bear her away to heaven. By comparison, the Jewel Song was a tawdry music hall ditty.

Still, to hear her—to see her— Erik rested his hand on the glass of the mirror and let her voice invade his soul.

_I laugh to see myself so beautiful in this mirror…_

She did not finish strongly, as Erik would have wished. The last note faded into oblivion before she opened her eyes, her magnificent eyes. Erik found himself as lost in them as he had been in her voice. Was it possible that those were tears appearing? Could they have been for him? She lifted her hand, her left hand, and brushed the water from her cheek, her wedding band glinting.

It was not the ring Erik had given her. Erik noticed that fact with a measure of detachedness, heart rent but unsurprised.

There was a knock on the dressing room door. Christine exhaled slowly. "Come in."

It was the Daroga. "Countess?"

"Did you find anything out?"

Nadir shook his head. "The entrances I am familiar with have all been blocked of."

"Rue Scribe," Christine murmured. "I still have the key."

Erik's heart began to pound again, even as Nadir offered a slight affirmative nod. _Entrances?_ The _Rue Scribe?_ They intended to go down to the house on the lake! "Perhaps that would be out wisest course of action—but not tonight."

"No, not tonight," Christine agreed, "but soon."

"How will you stand to go back down there, where you encountered so many horrors?"

Erik nearly offered a word of mockery to stave off the cuts Nadir's words were inflicting on his heart. _How will you stand to go back there?…_ He backed away from the mirror, one hand locked over his mouth. Not that such an action could actually prevent his voice from coming forth, but it served as a reminder that he ought to stay silent.

Christine finally replied to the Daroga's question. "How shall _you_ , Monsieur?" This was not the tone or manner of Erik's fair, young student. Perhaps she really was Marguerite, innocence destroyed by her association with vile old Faust.

"Shall we go, Madame?" Nadir inquired, ignoring her previous question.

"Yes." Christine spent a final moment looking deeply into the mirror. Erik stared back, into her eyes, then at her retreating back, and finally at the empty room.

He trembled. He might have sobbed, but he could not be sure. He did not know how long he stayed on the corridor behind the mirror, but eventually he found himself outside. He walked his now habitual route, uncaring of the dark. He came to the usual bridge; crossed it. He ended up on the Rue de la Harpe, knocking on a door, mumbling to a sleep-addled housekeeper. He could not convince to woman to admit him to the building, and was just about to unwind his lasso when he saw her.

He perhaps would have not recognized her, with her unbound hair and silk robe. But she walked forward, waving the housekeeper away, and said his name.

Erik looked into Nora's eyes. They were so very different from Christine's eyes: green and harsh, angled and unafraid. When Erik spoke, his voice was even and quite normal. "I'm glad to see you again, Nora. How was Marseilles?"


	14. Saints and Devils

Nora thought she had awoken because of the chill. It was past midnight, but she had been abed for only an hour or so. In that brief time, the fire had gone out in her room and she had managed to relocate all of her quilts to the floor. Her muscles were already stiff from the long train ride, and the cold was not helping.

She reached down to retrieve her covers.

" _...see…Farley…_ "

If Nora listened very carefully, she could hear some sort of conversation coming from downstairs.

The wife of the building's owner was shrill and easy to hear. " _Monsieur!... at this ungodly hour!... must insist!..._ "

" _Friend… Nora…_ "

Nora rolled out of bed and stepped into her slippers. Erik? Was that _Erik's_ voice? She put on her robe and tied it tightly. She walked out of her apartments and into the common corridor shared by the few other boarders. None of her neighbors were stirring. She went down the stairs into the foyer.

And there Erik was, looking mad and maniacal, intently telling Madame Perrignier that he needed to see Mademoiselle Farley _at once_.

Madame Perrignier was refusing, with increasing volume.

Nora approached the open door. There was a frigid breeze coming through it and Erik looked as if he was going to shatter. Nora waved Madame Perrignier away, earning herself a glare that was partially judgmental and partially relieved that someone else would be dealing with the situation. Nora came closer, reaching out but not quite touching him.

"Erik?"

His golden eyes immediately locked onto her. He remained unmoving for a long moment, and Nora had to wonder just what she had gotten herself into. Suddenly, the feral look in his eyes vanished and he was as calm and suave as any Parisian nobleman. "I'm glad to see you again, Nora. How was Marseilles?"

Nora could only stare at him, finding the question—his manner—the entire situation—utterly absurd. "Quite beautiful. …And how are you?"

"How am _I?_ " he repeated, as if awestruck. "How _am_ I?"

Nora lightly took his hand and drew him away from the door. "Come in, Erik. It's brutally cold."

"Brutal, Nora? You don't know what brutality is."

"Perhaps not," Nora said neutrally. Against her better sense, she led him up the stairs to her apartment. Thank heavens that the racket Erik had been making had not awoken Mr. Carey or Perrine, who both slept on the lower level of the house. No amount of _Sunday is your day off_ reminders would keep them away if they saw Erik. She led him to the settee in the parlor before poking at the embers of the fire. She managed to restart a decent flame. She sat down on the extreme opposite side of the settee.

"What's the matter?" she asked. The question came out sounding rather too much like an accusation. She coughed and added, "are you all right, Erik?"

He was silent, now staring into the fire. "How silly of me—how wrong of me—to come here. I think I've opened you up to all sorts of unpleasant commentary. What an ass I am not to think of that before—"

"Erik," Nora inched closer, and dropped her voice to a low, conspiratorial tone, "I think I'll survive whatever gossip people will create for me this week. But _tell me_ — what is the matter? Surely, you would have not come in so much distress if you had not thought that I might be of help to you."

He tilted his head curiously, as if he had not considered such a thing. "I don't believe you can help."

"Then why did you come?"

"I could not stay," he said, "I'll return, of course—but in that moment, with her so close by, I could not stay."

"You're not making any sense to me," Nora commented.

"When have I ever made sense to anyone?" Erik asked philosophically.

When confronted with that question, Nora had to pause. She did not know Erik well, but already she had had some of the most _interesting_ conversations of her life with him. Did they make sense? At one o'clock in the morning, she honestly could not remember.

"There's a spare bedroom," Nora said, keeping her voice soft. Maternal. Most women were maternal, were they not? "Get out of that wet coat, and get some sleep, Erik."

He turned to face her, his mask impassively white. "Are you mad, Mademoiselle? Or are you brave?"

"I don't know," Nora replied. "But you need to clear your head, I think." She wouldn't admit that she was on the verge of falling asleep in the parlor, despite Erik's sudden appearance filling her with a sort of energizing anxiety. "Do I need to be either? We're friends, aren't we?" That last bit was a desperate ploy, but it seemed to blunt some of Erik's sharpness of tone and manner.

"If we are, then you are friends with a devil," he said, his shoulders drooping.

How was she supposed to take such a declaration? "I'm hardly a saint," she replied.

One of his long, thin hands lifted and his fingers hovered close to Nora's face, as if he was tracing the contours of her features. "Yet, you look like one. And I? I look like the monster I am."

"The mask?" Nora hazarded to guess.

"The mask," he whispered back.

"Just rest," Nora insisted. "And tomorrow, you can tell me… whatever you'd like to." She arose and pulled Erik to his feet.

He did not protest, and let Nora show him to the second bedroom. It was filled with the knickknacks she had acquired so far in Paris, but the bed was clean and it was the warmest room in the apartment. His eyes fairly glowed in the apparent absence of light. "I rather blame it all," he said, very prim, "on _Don Giovanni._ " He shut the door and left Nora to wonder just what he meant by that.

Nora succeeded in sleeping rather too well. Her clock chimed six before she managed to open one eye. Early mass was definitely off the day's agenda. But wasn't she supposed to meet Erik after?...

The thought of Erik brought back the strange memories of the previous few hours. In an instant, Nora was on her feet, searching for something appropriate to wear. She glanced in the mirror—Good Lord, had she actually left her room looking like this last night? Her mother would have been ashamed of her, possibly rightly so.

_You've lived by your own rules too long, dear girl._ Her cousin had said that just months ago, looking as if he was commenting on some great tragedy. Maybe it was.

She was out of her room in quick order.

Erik was already in the parlor, sitting awkwardly in front of the fire. He must have laid new wood down, as there was a nice, strong blaze going. Nora resumed her seat, trying to think of what to say.

Thankfully, Erik spoke first. "I apologize again for any discomfort I may have caused you."

"Thank you," Nora replied. What else was one supposed to say? "I take it that something happen back at the Opera?"

He nodded with one, sharp movement. "You are aware of my… profession."

"I know you have everyone at the Garnier believing that they have a ghost," Nora said. She did not add, _I wasn't aware that qualified as a profession._

"I have been with the Palais Garnier since the beginning—the foundation, literally, the foundation. I helped to construct it."

Ah, that did explain some things. "The house on the lake," Nora murmured, "and the moving mirrors."

Nora could see a ghost of a smile where Erik's mask ended. "You are rather too quick for my tastes."

"I've been told that before."

"I am telling you one of my secrets," Erik said. He had changed his voice, using that hypnotic quality he was so adept at. "No one knows that I am still down there." He paused dramatically. "Except you, of course. You _cannot_ tell _anyone—_ "

"Of course," Nora felt a vague headache coming on. "I already told you that I wouldn't. But what happened _last night?_ "

Erik's manner changed again. Gone was his discomfited composure; he was tightly coiled spring, ready to strike out in any direction. "I saw… someone. Someone I never thought I would see again." He shook his head. "It does not matter."

It clearly did matter, but Nora thought it best not to press the subject. She liked Erik, genuinely, but he _was_ unpredictable. "Do you still want to go out for that walk?"

He shook his head slowly. "No. I left too many things undone last night." He paused, seemingly struggling with some unknown foe. "Next week. If you're still here."

"I'll still be here," Nora replied. "Oh, just wait a moment, though—I have something for you."

He startled, as if she had hit him. "Pardon me?"

"Just one moment," Nora went into the room Erik had used and searched out one of the boxes on the table. She returned to the parlor with a bottle in hand. "Marnier Lapostolle started to sell this liqueur just a few years ago—I don't know if you've had it. They call it 'Grand Marnier,' which is really rather pretentious." She handed the bottle to Erik. "It's not a Solera '92 by any stretch of the imagination, but I thought you might like it."

He looked at the bottle, examined it, turned it over and around.

And then he cried.

________________________________________

There was a difference between being graceful and gracious. Gracefulness was mostly a physical thing—poise and unclumsy movement. Graciousness, however, was the art of making any and everyone comfortable, the ability to lend dignity to those who might otherwise lack it. Nora had always been graceful, easy of movement and elegant of countenance. Graciousness, however… true graciousness had always eluded her. There were many times, the moment of Erik's appearance in her home for instance, when she became bitterly convinced she had received the lesser grace.

Tears were one thing that left her at an absolute loss. _Her_ tears only succeeded in making her angry at her own weaknesses. Others' tears left her awkward and uncomfortable. And _a man's_ tears? Seeing Erik pressing his fingers in the eye cutouts of his mask, shoulders shaking in agony, was far beyond her abilities. How many more times could she pat his back and murmur inanities?

At length, he quieted and took one long, shuddering breath. "Forgive me," he said, grave.

Nora wordlessly handed him her handkerchief. "I take it that you don't care for orange liqueur." At the unnaturally sad look in Erik's eyes, Nora regretted her words. Just once she should stop her tongue.

"It is not that," he said, now far more composed. "No one has ever given Erik a gift before."

They sat in silence, Nora's hand still on Erik's shoulder. "Erik… it's a small gift, but I give it without reservation."

"I know," he replied.

Nora sat observed his downcast profile, his beautiful mask that he claimed concealed a devil. She was desperate to give him some sort of comfort, and equally desperate to extradite herself from the situation. Without really thinking, she leaned over and kissed that cold cheek, as one might a good friend. "I'm going to make some tea. Or do you prefer something stronger?..."

He looked at her in shock and whispered, "tea."

Nora nodded and gave his back one last, light pat before getting up. With absolute horror, Nora recognized the feeling Erik was forcing out of her.

_I want to fix you. I want to fix you so badly it hurts. I want to mend your heart, even if I must shatter my own. I want to heal your scars, even if it means giving you my skin._

She stopped for an instant, took all of her discomfort and curiosity and compassion and turned it on itself. She turned it into fear and then into anger, and blasted away at that twisted desire to save him from… whatever it was that was attacking him.

_God_ _saves,_ she reminded herself sternly. _You will merely hurt him and ruin yourself._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The ending of this chapter struck me as a bit abrupt— let me know if it's too jarring.


	15. Morning Tea

There had been a look in Nora's eyes, in the brief time between the moment she had kissed Erik's mask and before she pulled away to make tea. Erik wasn't quite sure _what_ it was, but it led him to firmly believe that, had he turned and kissed her fully, she would not have refused.

  
It was more than a foolish thought. It was a dangerous one. He blamed it on having so recently seen Christine. _Her_ kiss still burned on his brow, as if she had just placed it there. Was it so terrible to desire that someone would take away that searing reminder of his past failure?

He watched Nora bustle away. Nora, Nora, Nora. How was it that he had even ended up here? When, in his entire life, had he run to someone in an hour of need? But she had not turned him away, had she? Last night, with her long hair undone and her scarlet robe, she had looked more like an avenging valkyrie than a saving angel—but she had also given aid that angels might well have refused. She asked questions, but they all seemed to come back to the utterly foreign one of _are you all right, Erik?_ As though she cared how he was! Beyond that, she offered no judgments and caressed him with a kiss in her eyes.

Ah, but how her eyes would change the moment he lifted the mask— and, alas, he _would_ need to remove the mask to kiss her! Perhaps he would merely find a way to steal her sight. How she would cling to him then, on their Sunday walk! Perhaps she would not mind sharing his old-fashioned little house then, even—

Oh, this was a special type of insanity, indeed! Erik stood up from the little couch in her bland parlor and paced in front of the fireplace. A woman paid him the smallest attention and he could not help but twist and pervert it into something heinous. How could he even justify being in the same building as she when such horrid thoughts were attacking him?

He thought of running, returning to his home and locking himself in. Perhaps he would wall over the Rue Scribe gate, so that no one would ever be able to come in and he would have great difficulty in getting out.

As he resolved himself to do just so, Nora reappeared. She was mostly paying attention to the large lacquered tray she was carrying. When she looked up, that odd, tender look in her eyes had vanished. Perhaps Erik had imagined it in the first place. She set the tray down and went about readying the cups. It was only when she asked Erik how he liked he liked his tea that in dawned on him that he couldn't possibly drink it. Nonetheless, he asked for lemon in the strongly brewed tea and accepted the cup. Nora's own beverage was plain and she had consumed half of it before Erik had even bothered to resume his seat.

After the silence threatened to drag on indefinitely, Erik spoke. "I fear that I've kept you from your… worship."

One eyebrow lifted. "It won't be the first mass I've missed."

There was something unusual in her tone, a cold sort of irony that surprised Erik. "I was under the impression that your religion is quite important to you."

"It is. But… religion is spiritual, and life is physical." She shrugged and topped off her teacup. "Life tends to demand precedence, and the condition of my immortal soul is fairly irreparable at this point."

What strange words she was using. Erik was unsure of how to reply, and thankfully did not have to. Nora changed the subject, though Erik was not sure if it was really to his benefit.

"How was _Don Giovanni_?" she asked. “I was sorry to have missed it.”

"It was a decent production," Erik replied, "though not the best that the Garnier has ever done. Just a year or two after the stage opened, we did an excellent showing. The orchestra was flawless at the time, the staging perfect. A young Lassalle played Giovanni surprisingly well."

She smiled slightly. "You sound proud."

Erik considered this. Proud? He supposed that he was. Even at that early stage, he had been subtly directing the Garnier. Those early triumphs had been as much Erik's as anyone else's. "It was the best showing I have yet to see of any Mozart opera." He chose not to include the various arias and duets he had practiced with Christine. Some of them had been heavenly, but none qualified as 'productions.'

"It sounds lovely," Nora replied. Her smile had taken on that bland quality he had noticed so often during her _visit_ to his own home. "Erik, what happened?"

He shrugged and hoped she would accept that as an answer.

She did not. "You said that you saw someone."

"Yes." He managed to take the smallest sip of the tea without getting his mask wet.

Nora did not fidget, but she appeared nervous. "I'm going to be impertinent."

"Impertinent?" Erik asked. "Are ladies allowed to be impertinent?"

"I don't know," she replied, deadpan, "no one gave me a book of instructions, though I know such things exist. Who is she?"

Ah, she really was too perceptive. It was a trait that would surely one day be her undoing. "She is… a former student."

"You teach? Whatever do you teach?" The blandness disappeared for an instant, replace with bright curiosity and a touch of—respect?

"I taught," Erik corrected. "I taught her to sing."

Nora set down her teacup and regarded Erik. "I don't know why I'm surprised. You have the most sensational speaking voice."

Erik felt inordinately pleased by that observation. "She was an excellent student."

"What happened?"

What happened, indeed! _I fell in love, I thoroughly misjudged the situation, I nearly killed half of Paris…_ "She chose marriage over her career. And what a career she would have had! She could have sung for kings— for emperors— for angels. And instead, she sings for a man who cannot tell the difference between a coloratura and a lyric soprano." Erik realized that he was gripping the teacup too tightly. He set it onto the low table and glanced up at Nora.

She was unreadable. "That's a shame."

"A shame? It is criminal," Erik scoffed. "But there is nothing _I_ can do about it. I had not seen her since her 'retirement.' Such potential utterly wasted." Erik absently wondered just what potential he referred to.

Christine's voice was undoubtedly wasted in the role of _Countess_. But what of the potential for their love? There had been potential, hadn't there? Music had brought them closer together than Erik had thought it possible.

Such potential, utterly wasted.

Erik had buried it under lie after lie, deception upon deception. Was that how the average man courted—communicated? Surely not. He looked at Nora. Did she know just how much he was dissembling even now? If she didn't, what would she think if she ever found out? It was not a lie on the same scale as the tales Erik had spun for Christine, but would she not perhaps view it as a sort of betrayal?

And if she did, would that not be another failure in Erik's life? How many more of those could he endure?

"I loved her," Erik added then, waiting for the horror to register on Nora's face.

It did not come. She merely poured more tea and made a vague, encouraging noise.

"During our acquaintance, I treated her… abominably." Erik pressed on, willing Nora to react in some fashion. "I deceived her." Still nothing. "I even kidnapped her."

Nora quirked a tiny smile. "Ah."

"Is that really all you have to say?"

"Well. What would you have me say?" she asked. When Erik did not—could not— reply, she asked: "What happened last night? Did she know that she would see you?"

"She didn't see me at all."

"So you chased her out of her box seat?" Nora asked, a light touch of humor coloring her voice. Erik was not amused, and she obviously realized that. "Sorry."

"She thinks I'm dead," Erik said. "She's come to bury me—it was an old promise I made her swear."

" _Made_ her swear?" Nora asked. "One can hardly _make_ someone swear something."

"I can be," Erik paused for a moment, considering his next words, "quite persuasive."

"I believe you. So what shall you do?"

"Do?" Erik leaned back and shut his eyes. "What do you mean?"

"It would be rather ridiculous if you simply let her bury you," Nora pointed out. "And I take it that you'd rather not confront her with the fact that you are quite alive?"

"That would be profoundly… awkward." Not to mention possibly dangerous for Erik and distressing for Christine.

"And you can't simply keep up the ghost routine and hide out underground for a bit?"

What a flippant way to summarize Erik's life! He opened one eye and glowered in response. "She expects to find... my body in my home and will have no trouble getting to it." He tried to take another sip of tea, but ended up sticking the nose of the mask into the cup. He dried it off viciously and added, "I gave her a key."

Nora finally set her teacup down and turned to face Erik more directly. Her expression was a bit different than her usual countenance: still serene and inscrutable, as any lady ought to be, but with a stronger spark of humor than Erik was accustomed to seeing in her eyes. He could not comprehend _what_ about the situation she could possibly find amusing. "I think we must come up with some sort of plan."

"A _plan_?" Erik asked. " _We_ shall come up with _a plan_?"

"It's the only really logical course of action," Nora noted. "You do not wish the girl to know you are alive, she is intent on burying you, I'd really rather not see you in a tomb… The best thing might be to convince her that you died _elsewhere_. Clutter up the house a bit; make it look like you haven't been there in… however long you've supposedly been dead. Perhaps even leave a note in deference to this promise you made her take. And then the simplest thing to do might be to go on holiday."

Erik listened to her hastily outlined 'plan.' "I assure you, that would not be the simplest thing to do." As for the rest of it… was that really what Erik wanted to do? Wouldn't he rather stay in his home, sit at his piano, and then serenade Christine the instant she set foot in the door? If he could only persuade her to…

…to _what?_ To stay? To resume her lessons? To sing something other than the _Jewel Song?_

"I wouldn't know where to go," Erik added, with what he thought to be great finality.

Nora considered this for a moment, and Erik hoped that he might have stumped her. He had not. "You're a man of… business, aren't you?" she asked.

"I am a man of many talents," Erik replied automatically. There were so few things that he _could_ boast about, why bother to conceal them?

"Do you know anything about French property law?" she asked. Erik did not like her tone.

"Only in principle," he said.

"Good enough," she stood and walked over to the one, tiny window in the room. The sun had been obscured by fog and frost, but light was now spilling into the room in earnest. "The one thing I have yet to do with my uncle's estate is actually deal with _the estate_. I had rather hoped to put that burden off until January and then toss it onto my cousin. But nothing besides that is preventing me from going."

She seemed to be waiting for him to speak, but Erik could not understand what she expected. "So you will be leaving Paris sooner than you said."

She rolled her eyes at him, rather brazenly. "His estate is in Burgundy. Côte de Beaune. Do you think your former pupil is likely to turn up _there?_ "

Erik simply stared at her. What was she _saying?_ She couldn't possibly be offering what it _sounded_ like she was offering.

As the silence dragged on, a faint blush colored Nora's cheeks. "You must forgive me, if that sounded unseemly. I tend not to view life through the lens of irreproachable propriety. I merely suggest that, if you are in need of a place to go, you could accompany me as my guest and advisor."

Erik found his vision becoming unfocused and he looked away from Nora. What a strange, strange woman he had fallen in with! How was he to know, on that fateful morning by Notre Dame, that _this_ was how events would turn out!

"You needn't make any decision now," Nora added. "This hardly seems like something you can schedule. But the offer will stand indefinitely."

"I will think on it," Erik heard himself say. He might have added _thank you_ , but perhaps that was simply an echo in his mind.

"Are you still intent on returning to the Garnier right away?" she asked.

Erik glanced at the clock on the mantle. Nearly eight! "Yes, I think perhaps I will."

Nora nodded. "Let me walk with you, as far as there. I should be able to attend one of the later masses on my return."

Erik agreed with a stiff nod and waited for Nora to get her coat. She emerged in a royal blue velvet thing, very elegant and unlike her usual Sunday attire. Erik would have been embarrassed by his hopelessly rumpled evening wear, if he had not intended to walk quickly and in shadows.

They departed and walked in utter silence—so different from last Sunday! The lack of conversation was almost more terrifying than their earlier discussions had been. But Nora seemed content merely to hold onto his arm and walk quietly.

They arrived at the Rue Scribe quickly.

"Now we're even," she said at last. "Last week, you saw me to my home—now I've seen you to yours."

"Indeed." Erik stood, uncomfortable. "Come to the theater on Tuesday evening and I will tell you how I intend to proceed." Perhaps his tone was a bit more highhanded than what was appropriate to use with a lady, but it was a role he was comfortable in and Nora did not seem to notice.

"Very well," she said. "Shall I—"

"Just come here," Erik said. He smiled. "We'll attend in Box Five."

She smiled back. "Of course. Good day, Erik." She leaned up to kiss his cheek again. "I'll see you soon."

She was only a step away when Erik could not help himself. " _Faust_ ," he said.

"Is that what they're playing?" she asked, mildly.

"No. I just what to know… what you think of it." Why? _Why_ did he want to know? But the question occurred to him and now burned in his mind.

She paused. "It's all worth it for the ending."

"When Faust gets him comeuppance?" Erik asked bitterly.

She waved her hand dismissively. "No, no. The lovers' duet and then Marguerite's Pure and Radiant Angels bit. It's astounding."

"It can be," Erik replied, numb. "But what do you think about the _Jewel Song_?"

She made a curious face. "Ah. Well."

"Do you like it?"

"No," she admitted. "I don't."

"Why not?" he pressed. Why was it so important for him to know her answer? Did it even matter what the answer was?

"It's a silly girl's play at vanity," Nora replied. "Just like _Caro Nome_ is a silly girl's play at love. Having been an exceptionally silly girl myself, I have no desire to see others stumble through the role."

Was _that_ the answer he had been searching for? Erik didn't know, but he bid Nora adieu feeling ever-so-slightly more contented. He watched her turn in the direction of the cathedral, at home and at ease though she was in a foreign city.

Erik's brief acquaintance with her begged the question: What was he to Nora Farley— busy Miss Farley who was doing this, that, or the other thing? Nothing, of course. At most, perhaps he was an oddity that she had stumbled upon; a pebble encountered on the road, destined to be kicked away.

But then, really, what was _she_ to _him?_

An unremarkable woman who had walked and talked with him for hours. Meaningless. Insignificant. Wholly unique in Erik's life.

 

 


	16. Entr'acte

When Nora thought of her father, one composite image appeared in her mind's eye. Dressed in conservative dark shades, though the fashions during Nora's youth would have let him wear whatever color he pleased, sitting behind the massive desk in his library. He would always be looking down at something—a book, a piece of correspondence—silver-rimmed glasses gleaming in the firelight. He would never set aside whatever business he was attending to, but his gaze would flicker up and he would listen intently to whatever problem Nora would bring before him. He was not a man to bother unnecessarily and certainly not one to argue with.

Nora found that she tended to mimic her long-dead father’s behaviors from time to time, usually when she did not want to deal with the consequences of her decisions or commentary from others.

Therefore, when she met with Mr. Carey on Monday morning to discuss the week's agenda, she sat at her writing desk and kept her eyes focused on the open ledger.

"I want to prepare to go to Burgundy," she said, tallying up her recent expenses and comparing them to her resources.

"When are you intending to depart?" Mr. Carey asked.

"I don't have a set a date, but I want to be ready to leave quickly." Nora let her gaze flicker up and then immediately back down. "We will likely have a guest to arrange for, as well."

"Will Mr. Tremblay be rendezvousing with us in Côte de Beaune or traveling with us out of Paris?"

"I haven't a clue what Mr. Tremblay will be doing," Nora replied. "I am thinking of bringing a friend with me."

"A friend, Miss Farley?" Nora had been prepared for Mr. Carey to sound vaguely scandalized—it was actually rather depressing to hear him sound so _surprised._

"I do have them, Mr. Carey," Nora glanced back at him.

His face was utterly bland. "I did not intend to imply otherwise, Miss Farley."

"My friend is not particularly social," Nora continued. "If we end up taking him along with us, we'll want a private compartment on the train."

Mr. Carey's pause was slightly too long for an imperturbable servant. "Indeed. Might I enquire where you met the… gentleman?"

Nora looked up at him, keeping her gaze even and hard. "Really, Mr. Carey, is that disapproval I hear?"

"Such would not be my place, Miss Farley." Nora gave him a bare smile. "Speaking of my friend, I'm meeting him at the opera tomorrow night. Make sure Perrine airs out my green damask, please."

"Miss Farley—" Mr. Carey paused briefly. "What time would you like the carriage to come around for you?"

Nora let her smile brighten. "A little earlier than last time. Thank you, Mr. Carey."

"Of course, Miss Farley," he sounded a little faint and Nora dismissed him.

That went well, all things considered. She certainly would not be bringing Mr. Carey with her on whatever her next trip would be—it was too difficult to feel obliged to live up to someone's expectations, even if he was staff and Nora had no particular duty to respect his opinions.

Still, she could be assured that Mr. Carey _would_ make the arrangements for Erik to accompanying him if she asked him to. The soft sighs and sad eyes would not impact his results, at least.

Of course, there was still the question of whether Erik would take up her offer at all. She had been reliving every moment they had spent together yesterday since leaving him on the Rue Scribe. His haphazard tale—or had it been a confession?—of his former student had been befuddling at best.

 _I kidnapped her._ Nora had found that amusing, though she knew she ought not. She wondered if Erik considered locking _Nora_ in his guest room kidnapping. Probably not.

 _I deceived her._ Not surprising, given that the man's 'career' was playacting a ghost.

 _I treated her abominably._ In Nora's experience, most men treated women abominably if they were afforded the opportunity to do so. Few men were actually aware of it—fewer still admitted to it. If anything, the acknowledgement of such a thing was to Erik’s credit.

 _I loved her._ Nora didn't bother to deny the little spike of jealousy that had hit her when Erik had first made that declaration. She did not _share_ well, even when it was merely a question of friends. It was another reason not to become too close to people—such relationships tended to bring out the worst in her. It was best simply to acknowledge the feeling and move forward. After all, Erik was at least ten years her senior, if not more. It was far from surprising that he had some sort of romantic history. And she could hardly imagine Erik falling into some sort of jealous huff if _she_ bothered to mention an old affair. She moved away from that train of thought.

_I loved her._

No wonder Erik had been in such a misery when he had come to see her. It was amazing what love, particularly disappointed love, could do to even the most serious-minded person. And if Nora wasn't mistaken, Erik could hardly be classified as the most stable man in France.

There was the one other part of Erik's tale that had struck a chord with Nora— _she thinks I'm dead._

How many others were under that impression? He had said that Nora was now the only one who knew that he was living under the opera house. Did _everyone_ else of his acquaintance think him to be dead?

There had been a time in Nora's life where that idea would have been immensely appealing to her. Even now, the idea that one could simply cut all ties to the past and move forward was one of her most dearly held beliefs. Perhaps she was not alone in that mindset.

Nora rested her head in her hands for a moment. One of these days, she would have to get a decent night's sleep. Perhaps she would go hide out in her late aunt's old house in the English countryside for a month or six after she left France.

…or, at the very least, it still took ten days to cross the Atlantic by steamer. If she locked herself in her cabin and refused to be sociable, she might be awake by the time the ship arrived in New York.

She rang for coffee and tried to put Erik out of her mind. No need to allow the man to monopolize her _every_ waking moment. She would be seeing him soon enough as it was.

________________________________________

It seemed perfectly logical to Nora that she was standing in a dark little nook of the Rue Scribe near twilight, dressed for the opera. After some consideration, _that_ thought struck her as quite amusing. She pulled her sable cape in tighter, hoping that Erik would appear shortly. She had been standing near the gate that led to the underground for over a half hour; the opera would be starting in less than a quarter of an hour.

He finally did appear, hold a lantern and… horse reins?

"I wouldn't want to see you ruin yet another evening gown on _my account,_ " he said, voice singsong. Nora decided that was her least favorite tone that Erik used. It was more unnerving than his mask could ever be. Well—perhaps not tonight's mask. Rather than his typical white sculpture, this one was matte black and covered every bit of his face, save his eyes.

"How thoughtful," Nora murmured, trying not to sound sarcastic. It wasn't as though she did not appreciate the gesture, but she had to wonder about the sentiment that would have precipitated it. She let Erik help her up onto the horse, which was a fine animal fitted with a sidesaddle. It was an uncomfortable business in her bustled gown, but there was no denying that Erik was leading the horse far faster than Nora could have walked the dank pathways. "Have you thought about taking a little vacation?"

"I have," he said.

"And?"

He was quiet for some time. "It's still _Don Giovanni_ playing. I thought you might be pleased."

"Erik, you never seem to _answer_ questions."

"Don't I?" Was Nora imagining things, or did he sound like he was laughing? They arrived at some sort of junction and Erik offered Nora his hand. She slipped off the horse and Erik tethered it to a makeshift fence and trough. "Come along, my dear, we still have quite a ways to go. Oh, and do be quiet. Sound travels in the most astonishing way in this opera house."

"Why does it strike me as likely that you might have something to do with that phenomenon?"

He turned to face Nora, though she could barely perceive the motion in the gloom. His eyes sparkled and smiled at her. Good God, but was this Erik _in a good mood?_

They were taking a notably different path from the one Erik had led her down from the Grand Foyer. He was right about sound carrying, too. As soon as they were out of the lower levels, it seemed as if Nora could hear voices coming from absolutely everywhere. She nearly asked Erik a question, but he held up a white-gloved finger to her lips.

The corridors became narrowed and finally came to a dead end. Nora could hear Leporello starting to sing of his woes as Don Giovanni's servant.

Erik stood motionless for a minute before pressing his ear to the wall. He nodded once to himself, and then noiselessly slid the wall open.

Nora found herself in Box Five. Erik saw her settled into the best chair before sitting down next to her, obscured by shadows.

"I'm starting to think you're rather clever," Nora whispered.

Again, she could have sworn that he was smiling under that mask. "I am."

"Now what about—"

"Just enjoy the opera, Nora," he said. He patted her hand in a fashion she could have almost called condescending. Nonetheless, she leaned back and… enjoyed the opera.

________________________________________

 

The cough started near the middle of the third scene, and Nora knew it was going to give her trouble. By the time the intermission started, she was biting her glove to keep quiet. Erik had eyed her curiously.

"Are you sick?" He asked. He didn't seem concerned so much as a trifle repelled.

Nora shook her head. "Just tired. I'll get a beverage—it'll be just fine."

"Be discreet," Erik chided her, as he managed to fade back into the wall without Nora seeing the entrance open.

"Well, I can't promise that I'll be as discreet as an apparition," Nora coughed once more. "At least, I think I can manage to blend in with this particular crowd."

"Very funny," his voice faded as the wall closed seamlessly.

Refreshments were served downstairs in the Salon du Glacier, which was further away from the Grand Tier than Nora would have liked. She supposed it was fairly uncommon for anyone sitting in those boxes to bother getting their own drinks, though not unheard of. By the time she arrived, her cough had mostly faded away.

Regardless, she accepted a glass of champagne from a passing waiter before starting back out of the salon.

"Mademoiselle Farley?"

She paused at Didier Moncharmin's voice. Blending in was often easier when _no one_ knew your name. "Monsieur Manager."

Moncharmin offered a blinding smile and bowed over Nora's hand. "I did not know you were still in Paris."

"Just for a short while longer," Nora said, falling easily into the mild, flirtatious tones every debutante learned to use. "But I heard wonderful things about your _Don Giovanni_. I had to come and see it for myself."

"I wish you had told me," Moncharmin said, "I would have gladly had you as my guest."

"I'm already here as a guest," Nora demurred.

"As well you should be," Moncharmin bowed again. "I forget what seat you said you were in."

Nora smiled over the rim of her champagne flute. "Possibly because I did not mention it." She let the statement hang, and nearly rolled her eyes when Moncharmin's smile took on a knowing glint.

"Of course, Mademoiselle," he said. "Just so long as you aren't a guest of the ghost, eh?"

"Monsieur Moncharmin," Nora handed off her now empty glass, "you _are_ obsessed."

He inclined his head ever-so-slightly. "We all have our foibles."

"Indeed." Nora offered an equally shallow nod. "I had best be returning to… my seat."

"Of course—" Moncharmin looked away for a moment and then turned his attention back to Nora. There was a strange, urgent look on his face. "But permit me to make an introduction first."

"Pardon me?"

"Well, it never hurts to have the right type of friends," Moncharmin said, guiding Nora with a light touch to the elbow. He deposited her in front of a young woman—twenty, twenty-one, perhaps. She was the type of beauty that was almost always in fashion, Nora thought. Slender and feminine, with honey blonde hair and unfocused blue eyes.

"Countess," Moncharmin began, "may I present Mademoiselle Nora Farley? Mademoiselle Farley, the Countess de Changy."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Possible anachronism: I couldn't find a date for when the Salon du Glacier was added to the Garnier, but I know it wasn't an original part of the opera house. But, you know, let's go with it for now.


	17. Act Two

If someone had asked Didier why he had felt compelled to introduce the Countess de Chagny and Mademoiselle Farley, he would have been able to spin some sort of story. He could have insinuated that Mademoiselle Farley had asked for the introduction, or that silly women and their love of fashion had conspired to exchange information of their seamstresses. If the audience was right, he might have let it slip that, franc to dollar, the Countess and the Mademoiselle were financial equals and the wealthy just loved to know each other. 

But if he had been compelled to tell the truth, Didier would have had a much more difficult time articulating it. Intuition would have been the most correct answer, he supposed. Here was the woman that had supposedly been romanced by Didier's Opera Ghost; here was the woman who had most recently been harassed by the same supposed specter. How could he pass over the opportunity to examine them both? 

The Countess was civil and cold at the introduction, as Didier had come to expect from her. The Mademoiselle was mild and serene, if a bit curious at how she had found herself in the situation. Physically, they were wholly dissimilar. The Countess looked like a sort of porcelain figurine: tall, regal, and above all _young_. It was quite understandable how a romantic young viscount had set his heart on such a girl. As for Mademoiselle Farley, she was not young, but she looked like the type of woman who had come into her full beauty at thirty rather than twenty. Exotic was the word Didier might have used for her, with her dark hair and sparkling, almond-shaped eyes. 

He directed the conversation as best he could in the short period of time he had. The one was a singer and the other a lover of song. That was the only point of commonality Didier could identify between them. The crowd was starting to move away from the salon and towards the auditorium. Didier stayed with both women as long as he could, although his obvious duty would lie in escorting the Countess back to her seat. He would have far rather gone with Mademoiselle Farley, to see who her mysterious friend was and which box they occupied. They began to bid farewell near the grand stair case, just as the glockenspiel players started to make their rounds, calling the audience to their seats. 

The two women were parting civilly, and without Didier having gained the slightest bit of insight. 

As a final, inelegant maneuver, he bowed over Mademoiselle Farley's hand and said, loud enough to be overheard, "I do hope the _Don_ is free of haunting for you." 

Mademoiselle Farley simply smiled, but the Countess's blue eyes grew impossibly wide. "Whatever do you mean by that, Monsieur Moncharmin?" 

"Monsieur le Manager believes that the Opera House is haunted," Mademoiselle Farley supplied. "It has become something of a joke between us." 

One look at the Countess told Didier that she did not find such a joke amusing. Her next words confirmed it. "I don't believe ghosts are ever fit material for jest," she said, "as the deceased must have come to a miserable end in order to be locked into such a state." 

Mademoiselle Farley's face took on that incredulous look that Didier was starting to become so familiar with. "Well, I really don't believe the Garnier is haunted. Do you, Monsieur Moncharmin?" 

The only thing Didier could think of was the check he had just written out for twenty thousand francs. "One can never really be sure, Mademoiselle." 

________________________________________ 

The second act had already started, and Nora had not yet returned. Erik alternated between impatience and anger, with a touch of worry thrown in for good measure. He considered going after her, but ultimately decided to remain ensconced in the box's pillar. 

At length, he heard the door open, the rustle of skirts, and a quiet sigh as she sat down. " _Erik?_ " she called, her voice feather light. One day, Erik really would be obliged to ask if she was in anyway musical. Her speaking voice was undeniably pleasant to the ear. 

"What took you so long?" Erik let himself back into the box and sat down. 

She huffed. "That damn manager caught me again." 

Erik was a bit surprised by her word choice in describing Moncharmin, and could not deny that her tone conjured up the somewhat agreeable image of the young manager dangling from the end of Erik's lasso. No—no—Moncharmin did his job decently and paid Erik in a timely fashion. Nora had also not explicitly said _kill the man for me._ But if she ever did, Moncharmin's good work ethic might not be able to save him. "What did he want?" 

She shrugged. "I don't know. He's a bit hung up on the whole idea of the Opera Ghost." She quieted for a moment and then turned fractionally to face Erik. "Erik, I don't know what the likelihood of this would be, but—if your former paramour were to approach him about going underground, I don't think he would refuse her." 

"I don't think she would ask," Erik murmured back. "But… this is what he wanted from you? More talk of the ghost?" 

Nora huffed again. "I haven't any idea really. He mostly seemed intent on introducing me to this little countess—" 

The world slowed for Erik. The music faded, even Nora's presence receded. He scanned the auditorium, searching. "The Countess de Chagny?" he whispered. 

"Why, yes—" Nora cut her comment short, and in a much more sedate voice said, "that's _her_ , isn't it?" 

"Yes," Erik replied. He could not see Christine in the crowd, which meant she was probably on one of the odd-numbered boxes. Was Nadir with her as well? Was tonight the night? 

He vaguely heard Nora's voice. "I don't know why I thought she would have been older." 

"Perhaps she should have been," Erik replied. 

In a strange moment that existed outside of what Erik knew about life, he felt Nora's hand slip into his own. He nearly jerked away, images of violence and imprisonment flooding his mind. But she held on firmly and leaned over. "What do you want to do, Erik?" she asked. "Do you want to leave?" 

What _did_ he want? 

Never had the answer to that question been more nebulous in Erik's mind. 

_I want a normal face._ Fifty years and counting on that wish—it was obviously not to be granted. 

_I want to build an unparalleled opera house, I want to compose the most sensational opera to ever be put to paper._ He had done both, and with what result? 

_I want a wife to take out on Sundays._ He had tried to attain that, but how horribly it had all turned out! Even now, that desire haunted him, as his eyes frantically continued to search for _her._

_I want to live._

That was undoubtedly his most recent desire, and the one he felt the least equipped for achieving. Perhaps he should simply return home, climb into his coffin, and close his eyes. He would not open them, even as the lid would be closed, even as Christine had him lowered into the ground, as the dirt started cover the coffin and suffocate Erik. 

But what was that one thing Nora had said, so offhandedly, on Sunday? _I'd really rather not see you in a tomb…_

She was still waiting for him to speak. Erik looked at her. She was serious and calm, though if Erik moved his finger ever so slightly, he could feel her pulse. It was racing—why? Was she nervous? Was she afraid? If so, why? 

Another option dawned on him, but he could not accept it. Was it possible that she was actually afraid _for him?_ Surely not! 

"I want," Erik began, _to run, to hide, to kill Raoul de Chagny, to disappear, to burn down the entire opera house, to go out walking with Nora next Sunday…_ "I want to finish the opera." 

She nodded and turned to face the stage again. She did not pull her hand away, and Erik continued to hold on to it. If he tried hard enough, he could block out the world beyond the music and beating of her heart. 

________________________________________ 

Nora couldn't help but believe that Erik had well and truly ruined the opera for her. First, it had been with his demonic, disembodied voice during _Rigoletto._ His disruption of _Lakmé_ had been less direct, but he had certainly interfered with Nora's enjoyment of the performance. 

And now, here she was, watching one of her favorite operas, completely and utterly preoccupied with the silent man next to her. Even the dynamic, dramatic Commendatore scene failed to wrest her attention away from the question of Erik. 

If she had the chance to see _Faust_ or _Anna Bolena_ or any of her other favorites, she would first make sure that Erik was not with her. 

At length, the opera ended, and the vast majority of the audience came to their feet to applaud. Nora and Erik remained seated. Nora was about to ask him what they were to do next when he turned and looked at her. 

The black mask lacked many of the arresting details of the white one, with the result of Erik's eyes becoming the sole focus of his face. They were calculating at the moment, fixed on Nora is a way that made her feel all together too exposed. She lifted her chin and met his gaze, instinctually defiant. He searched every inch of her face, stared into her eyes, never hinting at just what he was thinking. 

He finally stood walked towards the far end of the box, back turned to from Nora. He sighed and with one hand removed the mask, apparently rubbing at his eyes with the other hand. 

Nora stood and made to move over to him. 

"Don't you dare," he said. He did that unnerving trick of situating his voice right on her shoulder, as if he was whispering into her ear. 

"Very well," Nora whispered back. It was amazing he always seemed to hear her, regardless of how softly she spoke. 

He replaced his mask and then turned to face Nora again. "What did you think of _her?_ " 

No need to ask who he was referring to. _Voice like an angel. Colder than a winter night in Ottawa. Far too young for you._ "I'd loathe to be judged on the first impression _I_ make." Nora deflected. 

He chuckled lightly. "Did she seem happy?" 

"I really wouldn't know." 

"Now who does not answer questions?" Erik asked. 

"I don't know what to say," Nora admitted. It was the truth, alas. "Erik, do you know what you're going to do? If you want, we could leave tomorrow." 

Erik leaned against the wall. It was more of a hunch, a self-protective slouch, and Nora was reminded of the first time she saw him. Uncomfortable. Chased by shadows. "I cannot simply run away." He paused, fidgeted with his long fingers. "I want you to talk to her." 

"Pardon me?" Nora's voice accidentally slipped above the whisper they had been conversing in and Erik glared at her sharply. "What could I possibly say to her?" 

"I have observed that you are quite adept at the art of… counterfeiting with people," Erik said. 

"Counterfeit or conversation?" Nora asked, dryly. 

"The two seem to be more related than I would have at first thought them to be," Erik said. "Christine—that is her name, you know, not this 'Countess de Chagny' business—Christine is a trusting soul. If you engage her, you may be able to determine what her plans are." 

Nora snorted at the memory of the imperious Countess. "'Trusting soul?' Erik, I don't think that woman trusts the ground under her feet to stay put." 

That had apparently been the wrong thing to say, as Erik closed his eyes in something akin to anguish. "My poor Christine." 

Something about that phrase jarred Nora and she crossed over to stand directly in front of Erik. "You know, someone called me 'poor Nora' once. I don't think I ever forgave him for it." She had Erik's attention now, and she used it. "I think there is more to this story than you're telling me. I want to help you—I _like_ you Erik, and you seem to be having a terrible time of it right now—but before I start accosting countesses, you must tell me about the second act." 

He tilted his head. "The second act?" 

"You gave me the premise of your acquaintance with the Countess de Chagny," Nora said, "I know—vaguely—what is happening now. But where did it all go wrong? Why does she think you're dead? And why do you want to maintain the deception?" 

Erik was silent for some time. Nora could hear the Opera staff starting to circulate the boxes for cleaning. Would they come into the presumably unused Box Five? "I think, perhaps, I shall show you," Erik said. He slid open the wall and held out a hand to Nora. "But you will not like the story, my dear. Act Two in this case was absolutely damning."


	18. Of Comfort and Despair

Nora found herself back in Erik's quaint little parlor, almost entirely of her own volition. 

Surely, she must be mad. Had she not decided, just _three days ago_ , that she could not save Erik? That it was foolish to even try? That she would not allow herself to be drawn in to whatever melodrama he was starring in? But she now sat with Erik, sipping on a sparkling Riesling. Erik, of course, did not have a glass. He was still in his full mask, which she imagined was quite uncomfortable. How did he even breathe? 

That he was nervous was abundantly clear. He sat uneasily and paced jerkily by turns. He poked at the already blazing fire. He was vigilant in making sure Nora's glass was never empty—he had 'topped it off' twice before she had managed to take more than a swallow. 

"Christine Daaé's voice is exquisite," he began, still pacing. "In all my years, in all of the opera houses I have visited, all of singers I have heard— I have never encountered a single soul to match her raw talent. Oh, she had trained at the Conservatory for years, but her voice was still hidden when I first listened to her, concealed by shoddy technique and insecurity. But her tone—her timbre—her texture— you have never heard a voice like Christine's. I was compelled by that voice." 

"To love her?" 

"To _teach_ her," Erik said. He came to sit very near to Nora, eyes wide and intent. "You must believe me, that when I first heard her, my only desire was to help her gain mastery over the exquisite instrument of her voice. She was young, yes; beautiful, yes—but her voice was my only interest. But how could I—I?—approach such a creature, even if my motives were wholly pure?" He launched off of the couch again, and started pacing. 

Nora felt herself growing a little lightheaded. She blamed it on the hour and the wine, but she knew it was because of Erik. He moved and spoke with such tension that Nora was sure something would snap. She remained silent, not-quite watching Erik, trying to allow him a measure of privacy to collect himself in. 

"Her father had died," he resumed his tale. "But before he died, he had filled her head with the most sensational, supernaturalistic nonsense—though I doubt the man knew that his tales would one day be so exploited. I thus presented myself—rather, my voice—to her as her long awaited _angel of music_ , sent by Daddy Daaé to train her." 

"You _do_ have the voice of an angel," Nora whispered. She remembered how Erik's voice had even led her to believe for a brief moment that he might have been a ghost. What havoc could it have wrecked on the mind of one inclined to superstition? 

He sounded like he was smirking, "and you have not even heard me sing." His tone immediately changed from ironic and rueful to utter remorse. "I cannot quite describe what followed. She viewed me as part mentor, part father, part _agent of God!_ She trusted me as no one has ever trusted me before, she _loved_ me as I had never been loved before. And while I knew— _I knew_ —that her love was an innocent's love, a respect rather than a romance, I could not help but return it a hundred-fold. Her voice, her purity, her trust—" his voice cracked. "And so I pinned everything in my life on this one _girl_. Do you not think that was unfair of me?" 

Nora could not help but answer directly. "Yes." 

"Oh, Nora. I think you've always answered me honestly," he sighed, "which is why, when I have finished related these events to you, you must judge me, and I will take your judgment as the truth." 

Dread spread through Nora's body and she set down her wine glass to keep from dropping it. Awkwardly, she looked away, smoothed out her dress. " _That_ is also very unfair, Erik." 

"Yes. But, as you see, there is precedence for such behavior from me." His courage seemed to fail him for a moment, and he sighed. It amazed Nora how he could seemingly collapse upon himself, his bearing changing seamlessly from that of a king to that of tiny child. He seemed to lose half his height in such moments. "It went well for some months, as well as it could go. I brought out the best in her voice and, I flatter myself, the best of her confidence. There was an opportunity for her to sing at a gala— we took it, and she was a seraph. At the time, it seemed as if we were unstoppable, that we would be together forever. She was devoted to me, and I believe that her devotion could have turned to deep love—" he cut himself off with a sharp gesture. "I won't go down that path, however. I will simply tell you that things got out of hand. She encountered a childhood sweetheart, my jealousy was excited beyond imagining, but my faith that Christine was destined to be my bride was cemented. Until—" he gestured to covered face. "This ended all of my hopes." 

"Is it really so dreadful?" Nora asked. 

Erik was immediately in front of her, on his knees, gripping her hands in his. His yellow eyes forced her to hold his gaze, and his voice was dangerously low. "Never ask that, Nora. _Never ask that._ Because if you start asking that, your curiosity will grow, and one day you will make a terrible mistake—and then you will never be free of me." 

Nora wanted to laugh at his dramatics, to joke that he had been too long around theater folk. But his eyes prevented her, and his iron hands lent an ominous note to his final statement. "Very well, Erik." 

He nodded once and released her, but stayed on his knees. "I went mad—mad with envy, mad with desire. And Christine suffered for it. I made her miserable with my love. I knew I was going to lose her to her little viscount, and if I wanted to prevent it, drastic action was needed. It culminated in my... abduction of her. I gave her a choice—marry me, or—" he cut himself off again, this time laughing. He laughed long and hard, and Nora chuckled along with him nervously. "She could either marry me, or I would _kill thousands._ " 

Nora's laugher died instantly. "What?" 

"My cellar—right near where this excellent Riesling was—was filled with gunpowder. Christine had the ability to either ignite the powder, or flood it. No, she would not marry me; yes, she would be my bride. The grasshopper or the scorpion." He laughed again, softer this time. "I _do_ have a penchant for dramatics." 

"I agree," Nora murmured. Grasshopper? Scorpion? _Gunpowder?_ Perhaps Erik was far less sane than she had previously believed. 

He vacated the parlor for a moment, only to return with two small boxes. He held them out to Nora. To her surprise, they contained two exquisitely detailed figurines in Japanese bronze. A grasshopper and a scorpion. 

"As you might be able to see, these were at one time connected to a greater system—they acted as a sort of knob. Grasshopper for the flame, scorpion for the water." He lowered his voice further still. "I made her turn them with her own hand." 

"And she turned the scorpion," Nora surmised. 

"She did. To save half of Paris, but I think more so to save the viscount—you see, I had him here, as well—but I cannot speak of that. Already, I see how your opinion of me is slipping into the depths of Hell." 

"No, Erik," Nora said. "Right now, I have no opinion. I am… overwhelmed." Nora had never spoken truer words. "What happened after she turned the scorpion?" 

Erik finally stood, waving his hands. "This and that. I released my… captives, save her, of course. Then we just sat, sat dumb. I kissed her—just a tiny kiss on her brow. She let me do so. And then we cried—oh, how we cried." 

He looked to be on the verge of tears at the moment, but continued on. "What else could I do when confronted with such goodness? I let her go. I returned her to her boy, with the single charge that she return after I died, to bury me, bury me with the wedding band I had given her. And so she returns—for I thought that I was surely going to die, and so sent notice. She is late in coming, but she has come nonetheless." He sat down and did not meet Nora's gaze. "Does that satisfy your curiosity?" 

Was that how this entire confession had begun? Had Nora been curious? She supposed that she had been. She had said that she would not speak to the Countess de Changy without knowing more of the story—was this story the one she had been expecting? Certainly not! "Well. I still don't know what I would say to her." 

Erik laughed briefly and bitterly. "It was a mad idea, Nora—Christine always makes me mad. But tell me, tell me true—" her turned to face her, posture brave, eyes fairly bleeding agony— "how do you _judge_ me, Nora?" 

How did she judge him? She scarcely knew. "I could lie to you," she said, "I could say that only God judges. And perhaps he is the only one who _should_ judge, but we all know that every man and woman alive does their best to commandeer the duty." Nora looked away from Erik, suddenly interested in the pattern of her dress and the tick-tock of the mantle clock. Nearly one o'clock. It seemed that Erik was a permanent fixture of the too-early morning hours for her. "I'm not fit to judge you." 

"Not fit?" Erik hissed. 

"No. Not fit. Not competent," Nora flinched, "and you should know, that is not something I never like to admit." 

"I forgot the other side of your honesty," Erik murmured, "your silence. I can only take it to mean that you really do _see_ me, and so _abhor_ me, as well you should." 

"And I would thank you not to speak for me," Nora snapped. What an accursed position Erik had put her in! To lay bare his sins—which were as strange as they were grave—and then to place her in the position of jury and judge. How far did he expect her to play in this role? She picked up her deserted wine glass and drank the contents too quickly. "It seems to me that your greatest crime is—" _abduction, deception, attempted murder?_ — "loving too intensely and not knowing what to do about it." 

"A pretty turn of phrase," he murmured. 

He was threatening to mope, and Nora did not know if she could handle that. She turned to him seriously, shoulders square and chin tilted up. "Erik. I judge that you have been very foolish man in the past, which is a crime every person on Earth is guilty of. Your sentence—" his downcast face shot immediately upward, eyes horrified— "is to do better next time." 

"I'll do better than _that,_ " Erik replied. "There will not _be_ an encore performance. The show has _closed._ " 

"Oh, you see, now you're being foolish again. The key to success in these sorts of ventures is predetermination. So I charge you—if you are occasioned to love again, will you do a better job of it?" 

It sounded as if Erik snorted, but Nora could not be sure with his mask. "I shall serve my sentence, Madame la Juge." 

Nora nodded once, mentally adjourning the strange court she had been dragged into. "Which returns us to the original question of—how shall we avoid having you buried alive?" 

Erik shook his head. " _I_ shall think of something. And you—you should probably go to bed." 

"My own bed?" Nora asked. "Not that your guest room isn't very comfortable—" _never mind that I don't think I could go in there without seeing the drama of Christine Daaé play out on every surface—_

"I think you might be more comfortable in your own home," Erik said. He stood and offered his hand. "Besides, I've already opened you up to enough commentary." 

"Oh, Erik," she came to her feet easily and smiled, "my life has never been _closed_ to commentary." 

________________________________________ 

As Erik prepared to take Nora back up to the street, she once again made her offer of sanctuary. Erik could not deny that it was an appealing notion. What a novel experience it could be—to be the guest of a charming woman at some grand old country house. Coffee and newspapers in the morning, walks around the grounds in the afternoons, music in the evenings. Surely an estate like the one Nora had spoken about would have had a music room. What a pretty little dream, what an impossibly pretty dream! 

Erik reminded himself that there had been a time, not too long ago, where he would have thought sitting in Box Five with a companion was an impossible dream as well. Instead of the heartening him, such a thought brought to mind the realization that he had best not expect too much more out of what world was willing to give him. 

He demurred. "I cannot help but see taking your offer as a sort of coward's ploy. Running away like a scared child—does that sound like the right thing to do? I cannot imagine that it does." 

"On the contrary—" _Of course_ Nora believed the contrary— “I believe that there are occasions when running is the absolute best thing one can do." 

"And what do you know about such a thing?" He challenged. Nora never seemed to mind when he did such things. 

"I consider myself to be a sort of expert on the matter," Nora said. "And you are correct, at times it is simply a coward's move. But on other occasions, I think it is—" she cut off mid thought, and remained disconcertingly silent and distracted for some time. "Let me give you an example," she said at last. "You mustn't be scandalized." 

Erik eyed her with suspicion. He recalled how she appeared on that one, lengthy Sunday walk as she shared her various anecdotes and tales. She had been lively and _chatty_ at the time, and had used that phrase— _you mustn't be scandalized --_ rather a lot. _Let me tell you a secret, and we shall laugh at it._ That was not the tone she used now. There was actual concern in her voice, and her eyes did not glitter like he had come to expect. Well, Erik was nothing if not a curious man! "Very well." 

She quirked a smile, barely visible in the half-light. "I suppose I ought to tell you something of my… _one, true love,_ " her voice was not bitter, but supremely ironical. "Quid pro quo, if you will. Of course, it's nothing like _your_ story. Not a grand romance, by any reckoning, very little of the drama that seems to have plagued you." 

"Something to be thankful for," Erik said. His blood had run cold as soon as she mentioned _her love_ , but he attempted to vanquish the feeling. Of course she had loved. If Erik, deviltry incarnate, could love, surely Nora with her careless kindness had, as well. He reminded himself that it was an oddity that she was unwed, and that his state of cursed singleness was not the norm. 

She continued, unaware of Erik's turmoil. "Perhaps. I'll simply say that I really did _fall into love_ with this man. I was not looking for it. We were friends first, and the idea of romance was a slow one in occurring to both of us. But we had much in common, and we would delight in making up wild plans of the things we would do, and most particularly, the places we would go. We were both travel-mad. During our courtship and our engagement—" 

Erik disguised his exclamation of surprise as a distant echo. _Engaged?_ He could not help but look down at her hand, as if he would still see the evidence there. 

Nora caught his frantic glance, and she quirked an eyebrow. "As I was saying, during that time, we started to really cement our plans. I was particularly thrilled, because I had already been most everywhere that a young girl could go with a lady chaperone and I was desperate to move on to more exciting ventures. And he—well, he was game for anything, as they say. He would gladly serve as my protector in the wilds of the world. It was in this spirit that we decided to honeymoon in Egypt." 

"You must be joking," Erik replied. 

"Why? What's so unbelievable about it? It was actually quite the fashion at the time," she smiled at him a little sharply, "which you might have known if you hadn't been living underground." 

Erik grew slightly indignant at the insinuation, but merely tapped his chest. "Touché. At what point did you run away? When you arrived in Cairo and discovered how dusty it is?" 

"I'll hurry to the point, if I'm so boring you," Nora said, "when the engagement fell through, I found myself at something of a loss. I had been rather invested in that relationship, and to find the future I had spent years building up for myself simply gone…" she grew quiet. "Well. I decided to go and travel for a bit, which my family and friends generally thought to be a good idea. My mother particularly encouraged me to go visit my late father's family in England. She determined that she could live with a Protestant son-in-law if he was in possession of a decent title. But the more I thought about it, the more repellent the entire situation became to me. Therefore, I ran away." 

"To England?" 

"To Egypt," she said. "I hired a dahabeah, a crew to go with her, a staff—and I sailed the Nile, just as I had always wanted to do. I did so alone, without a matron of good breeding or a Christian husband to protect me. I stayed there for over a year. In the meantime, I lost a good deal. I lost many friends who viewed my actions as irresponsible. My mother died, and I only spared the event a telegram. Of course, that bit of familial infidelity put a seal on my reputation as being quite heartless. But I also gained something, something dearer to me than all of the friends or family or faithless lovers in the world." 

Friendless, relation-less Erik could not fathom what she could possibly put so high a value on and told her so. 

"Autonomy," she replied. "I returned from Egypt as a wholly autonomous person. Oh, I had always had money. I had always had the recklessness one associates with youth. I had always thought that I had done exactly what I pleased to do. But never had I known the true exercise of free will until that moment when I returned home to Canada, looked around, and saw that I was quite, quite alone. Some people would take it as a tragedy—but it is the best thing that has ever happened to me." She smiled suddenly, breaking the solemnity of the atmosphere. "The moral of the story, dear Erik, is that, at times, running away is a very good thing to do." 

They immerged on the Rue Scribe, and Erik led Nora to where the taxicabs usually loitered. He picked a sober looking driver and helped Nora to get situated. Before closing the door, he said, "I'm going to be impertinent, Nora." 

She smiled in return, "as just deserts for my plays of impertinence these past few days? Yes, I imagine I do deserve it." 

"How did it come to end between you and…" Erik waved his hand aimlessly to indicate Nora's unnamed former fiancé. "The two of you?" 

"Ah," she lost some of her gaiety, "well, I think it was rather my own fault. I had the misfortune to be the second love of a very loyal man, and the audacity to believe I would be equal in his heart. But when he was occasioned to choose between us, I was the one found to be lacking." She smiled again. "I will admit to one point of perverse pleasure in the whole ordeal." 

"Which is?" 

"He's still travel mad," she said, "and his wife gets terribly seasick and so refuses to go abroad." She leaned out of the carriage and gave Erik her now-habitual peck on the cheek. "Goodnight, Erik." 

"I'll see you on Sunday, Nora," he replied and shut the door.


	19. Decisions

Nora was not surprised to find both Mr. Carey and Perrine still up when she arrived at her flat. Mr. Carey was blander than bland; romantic Perrine had a spark of mischief in her eyes. 

Nora ignored them both. 

"Did you enjoy your evening?" Perrine asked, far too excited. 

Nora's thoughts were hopelessly blurry. It would have typically taken far more than a few glasses of wine to flummox her so badly. _It's not the wine, you idiot—it's Erik._ "I don't know. I think so." She let Perrine treat her like a doll for dress up, profoundly relieved to finally be in a warm nightgown and wrap. 

"Did you see Monsieur _Erik?_ " Perrine pressed. 

"Why would you ask such a thing?" Nora growled. 

"That's exactly what Mr. Carey said earlier," Perrine said. 

"Perhaps you should have listened to him," Nora waved Perrine away. "I'll finish the braid—just turn down the bed, please." 

Perrine went away all smiles. What did she have to be smiling about? As far as Nora was concerned, the sky was falling down and blasting a tunnel to Hell in its wake. The lights were extinguished, Perrine bid her goodnight, and Nora could only sit in bed, hopelessly awake. 

When she had been with Erik, listening to his golden voice spin his sordid tale, she had been disturbed but not overly so. Now, after she had time to think and reflect, she was horrified. 

Surely, surely, surely Erik—her amusing Erik, her hapless Erik, her brilliant Erik, her broken Erik— surely, he was a criminal of the first order. Well, perhaps it wasn't _so_ bad. He hadn't said that he had _actually_ killed anyone, after all. He had simply stockpiled gunpowder and given the fuse to a distraught young girl… 

She groaned and turned over, burying her head under her pillows. She had charged him with behaving _foolishly._ Did 'foolish' even begin to touch it? She had been told that she was being very foolish in the weeks and months after her engagement had been broken off—but she had managed to refrain from kidnapping and death threats! 

_He let her go,_ was the thought that continued to play at the edge of Nora's mind. _He let her go. He knew he was wrong—he tried to make amends._ Didn't _that_ count for something? 

Nora spent what remained of the night grappling with that question, fatigue taking over the instant that sobriety started to set in. 

Another question occurred to her, quite separate from her other concerns about Erik's confession. _If he came to you right now and agreed to go to Christian's estate with you, would you still let him come?_

The answer, a bit to her chagrin, was _yes._

She promptly fell asleep and did not awaken until lunch time. 

________________________________________ 

In the long years that Erik had been acquainted with Nadir, one thing had become abundantly clear. The good Daroga was nothing if not _consistent._

Alas, part of his consistency was being a late riser, often breakfasting when most would be lunching. In deference to this knowledge, Erik passed his Tuesday morning perusing the former site of the Tuileries Palace. The gardens were being restored, but it was a slow project. The site looked utterly desolate in these first days of winter. 

It occurred to Erik, for the first time, that Nadir had already taken up residence on the Rue de Rivoli by the time of the Commune. He would have only needed to glance out his window to see the old Palace—had he watched it burn? Erik would have, if only to have had his belief in the beastliness of humanity confirmed. 

Some distant clock bell tolled the noon hour, and Erik turned back. He could imagine the look on Nadir's face. A good deal of shock, a touch of anger, an undercurrent of fear. 

Well. Wouldn't this be fun? 

Erik knocked and waited. 

Darius had been Nadir's servant for decades, and Erik knew for a fact that the man had nerves of steel. It was therefore quite gratifying to see the man's face pale and his eyes grow impossibly large. 

" _Jadugar Agha_ ," the man breathed, barely audible. 

Sir Sorcerer! What a greeting! It brought back a torrent of memories to Erik and a malicious smile overtook him. "Nadir," he said simply. 

Darius stood aside and let Erik pass, never turning his back to him. Such was the Persian custom, but Erik knew that it was motivated as much by fear as politeness. 

Nadir, of course, was utterly unaware. He sat with his back to the parlor door, his face to the window. Tea and sweet bread was spread out on a low table in easy reach of his seat. His hand was just curling around his teacup when Erik entered. 

" _Salaam, doosteman,_ " Erik let his voice slide across the room. 

Nadir's hand froze, but he did not turn to face Erik. His manners, previously so impeccably groomed in Shah's service, were quite tarnished! "'Hello, my friend?' Why, Erik, I had no idea you still cared!" 

"Old age has made you insolent," Erik replied. 

"I have come to realize something, Erik," Nadir finally pivoted in his seat to look at Erik with his pale eyes. "You are either here to kill me or you are not. If the former is true, I can do nothing to prevent it. If the latter is true, I have no need to be fretful." 

"Ever the pragmatist, Daroga." 

Nadir nodded stiffly. "Well. Sit if you want. Drink tea if you want. I will not waste time engaging in _tarof_ with you." 

Erik sat down on the main couch, elegantly flipping his coattails about him, and poured himself a glass of strong tea. "I came to thank you, Daroga." 

Nadir snorted. "Indeed?" 

"Saying prayers for me? I had no idea you were capable of such sentimentality." 

"Well, I shan't make that same mistake again," Nadir said. "After all, a prayer for the dead is only worth offering when the person is _actually_ dead." The older man growled and picked up a pastry and bit into it viciously. He muttered various, mild obscenities at Erik, mostly alternating between _monster_ and _insufferable ass._

Erik remained impassive, occasionally shifting his mask to sip his tea. So nice to know that Nadir had not changed in all these years. 

"What brings you here, you insolent liar?" Nadir asked at length. "The last time I saw you, you were _dying of love._ You were practically a corpse!" 

Erik gave him a sharp look. "And that was a new fashion for me?" 

"You put your advertisement in the _Époque!_ " 

"I _thought_ I was dying," Erik murmured. "I had rather _hoped_ to be dying. But, as you see—" 

"You're crazy," Nadir said, oh-so matter-of-factly. "It is as simple as that, Erik. You are quite crazy." 

_Deevoneh_ was the word he used—derived from the word _deev_ , demon. Beset by a devil and mad because of it. Funny, how Erik could not escape some epitaphs, regardless of the language he was addressed in. Erik decided to ignore the statement, axiomatic as it was. "You must prevent Christine from carrying out her pledge." 

At once, the Daroga amended his manner. He was business-like now, and serious. "Have you seen her—spoken to her?" 

"I thought of it," Erik admitted, "but determined that such a course would be… unwise." 

"My God, Erik," Nadir said, "is that a hint of maturity? Has that arrogant young architect ass _finally_ died away in favor of an actual _human?_ " 

"Careful, old man," Erik growled, "I _still_ carry my catgut." 

Nadir snorted. "Of course you do. You wouldn't be Erik without it." He paused for a moment and drained his teacup. "I agree with you. But the Countess—" Erik could not help but wince Nadir use of Christine's title—"is determined." 

"I intend on blocking all of the main entrances that might lead one to the lake," Erik said. 

Nadir's eyes grew sharp. "Indeed?" 

"In one of them—the Rue Scribe, I believe—I will leave a letter for Christine. It will be undated, and will release Christine from her obligation. You might arrange for her to find it." 

Nadir nodded. "And what of you? Have you finally mastered walking through solid walls?" 

"I will be elsewhere," Erik said, "for the time being. I shall contact you on my return." 

"Of course you will. Heaven would forbid that you might leave me in peace." He paused and then conceded, "I suppose your plan is tolerably sound, though I do not think she will be easy to persuade away." 

"If I thought it would be better to simply approach her, I would have," Erik said, "but I cannot imagine that doing more good than harm." 

"Indeed," Nadir said. He paused, and his eyes clouded. "Erik, how did you—" he cursed again, with more vitriol than he had previously. "That mirror! That damn mirror, you pervert!" 

Erik couldn't help but chuckle as he refilled his glass. Few could make as good a cup of tea as Darius. 

________________________________________ 

Nora awoke, clear-headed and with a wide-open schedule. A faint feeling of mortification was haunting her from last night. Erik's confession—her own discussion of a past she typically ignored— it was all far too _personal_ for her tastes. 

Well, she would not think of it today. No, she would stay in, spend the morning at her leisure and bring her evening to an early end. 

Mr. Carey obviously approved of this scheme. He served Nora's luncheon with a flourish and offered to acquire any sort of reading material for her, should her current library prove insufficient. 

The afternoon passed as quietly as the morning. By early evening, the sun had retreated behind the December clouds, casting Nora's parlor into a slumberous gloom. She found herself dozing off, her most recent literary acquisition slipping from her hands. 

"A _hem_." 

Nora was at once awake at Mr. Carey's discreet entry. "Yes?" 

"There is a Monsieur Erik here to see you," Mr. Carey said, stiff and formal. Surely, Perrine had mentioned the name to Mr. Carey at least once or a hundred or so times. 

"I'll see him," Nora murmured, coming unsteadily to her feet. 

Erik swept into the room without a hint of last night's wariness. In his left hand, he carried a black leather valise. 

Nora eyed the travel case, and then looked back at Erik. He was back in his elegant white mask, his eyes all but invisible. He tilted his head at her, an unspoken question. 

In spite of herself, Nora found that she was smiling. She nodded and gestured for Erik to sit. "Mr. Carey?" 

"Miss Farley?" 

"When will be able to depart for Côte de Beaune?" 

The old man looked between Nora and Erik, a brief, harsh flicker. Still, he stood tall and straight, and his voice was even and professional. "Tomorrow morning, Miss Farley." 

Nora nodded and glanced at Erik. "In that case, please prepare the second bedroom for Monsieur… Erik." 

Another tight nod, "Yes, Miss Farley." 

"That will be all, thank you." 

Nora watched him depart, and then turned back to Erik. He was still silent, his posture confident and questioning by turns. 

_This is an imbecilic idea,_ Nora thought. _This could truly be my undoing—this could be my death._ And yet, it was with perfect honesty that she said, "I'm so glad you decided to come along, Erik." 

His voice—his sensational, magical voice—was low. "As am I."


	20. Starting Point

The full import of Erik's decision to go with Nora to Burgundy, with all its myriad ramifications, did not really occur to him until suppertime. 

The clock had chimed six and Nora had rung for her servant—the cold old man who eyed Erik with blatant disapproval. 

"Mr. Carey, would you be so good as to lay out a place setting for Monsieur Erik?" She made this request with such a lackadaisical, matter of course air that Erik nearly ignored it. But then— 

A place setting? Did she really expect Erik to dine with her tonight? Had she expected him to dine with her every night for the duration of their trip? He looked at her intently. Perfectly calm, perfectly guileless. It was as if she didn't even realize that she trying to move heaven and earth! 

Just as old Carey was turning away, Erik spoke up. "No, no. That's not necessary." 

Nora had turned to him with a strange small smile, a spark of coquetry in her eyes. "Oh, come now, Erik—" suddenly, her face changed and she eyed Erik's mask with something like understanding. "Are you sure?" That was obviously not what she had intended to say, but the transition was so faultless Erik barely caught the break in her speech. 

Erik nodded. 

"Very well, then," she turned again to Carey. "Tea, please, Mr. Carey." 

"Nora," Erik said, using his best cajoling tones. "Go enjoy your supper. I think I'd like to retire early today." 

The following moment was consumed by uncomfortable silence, Nora and Erik maintaining eye contact. Eventually, Nora looked away and nodded. "All right, then." 

She offered to show Erik to his room, but he declined this as well. Again she allowed Erik to have his way without question. 

It befuddled Erik how she did that. Sometimes, she would needle, push—extracting the story of Christine came to mind. But on other occasions, she would glance at him and drop a subject immediately. It was as if she could tell how Erik was going to respond simply by looking at him, and it unnerved him utterly. He searched through his memories, wondering if other people communicated in like manner. In a way, he could say Nadir treated him in a similar fashion—the difference being that he did not seem to _care_ if he upset Erik or not. Nora seemed to intentionally leave off from subjects that distressed Erik, regardless of what the consequences might be to her. 

It was probably coincidental. 

He spent the next half hour sitting awkwardly in the guest bedroom. Guest. _Guest_. When had Erik ever been a guest? How ought a guest behave? Probably not in the fashion Erik was proceeding, hiding out as it were. The more he thought of it, the surer he was that he was making a terrible mistake. 

Erik was almost thankful when Carey, bearing a covered tray, interrupted his unpleasant thoughts. 

"Supper for you, sir." He had followed this statement up with a hard glare and stood at rigid attention. 

Erik simply stared at him for a moment, until he realized the man was waiting for a formal dismissal. He tried to remember what Nora would say to Carey, but she had a habit of fading into English around her staff. At last, Erik managed to say, "Thank you, Monsieur." 

The man nodded in return and left, leaving Erik to stare at the tray. After a moment he arose and turned the lock on the door. The room was windowless, and the one mirror was in the far corner. After great hesitation, he slipped off his mask, and immediately felt naked and exposed. After a lifetime of wear, he could not help but view his mask as a second skin. Would one simply take off their skin at the slightest prompting? He thought not. He had gone on for days masked. At times he found himself sleeping in one, only to suffer the next day with sores and inflammation. 

But as for eating, he was obliged to do so barefaced. 

He lifted the covering off the tray. Soup and meat, three types of vegetables and some sort of sweet pudding. Nora didn't do things by halves, did she? A note card was placed next to the plate. 

_You can't expect me to let you go hungry, now can you? -N._

What a strange thing to write! Quite the hostess, wasn't she? He tried to divine some hidden meaning in her words—was that a hint of mockery? Did she assume that Erik's refusal of supper had been some sort of personal slight? He was humiliated at the thought. He picked at the provided food, and tried not to let his mind run wild with the possibilities of the future. 

________________________________________ 

The rest of the night proved little easier to deal with than the misfortune of supper. Erik was restless and could not sleep. The bed was comfortable, the door firmly locked, but he could not rid himself of feeling _hunted_. He extinguished and relit the lamps a half-dozen times during the course of the night, finally resigning himself to miserable wakefulness by the early morning hours. 

He walked around the room more than once. The space was filled with an odd assortment of things—books, antiques, bottles of spirits, wrapped packages from ladies' couturiers. Nora had apologetically noted that she had been using the room as a storage space. Erik had not thought much of the statement at first, stating that he would only be her guest for the one night. But the more he thought of it, the more uncomfortable he felt. Being surrounded by her things, unable to _not_ look at them, lent Erik a sort of voyeur's guilt. 

He tried to read one of the novels she had carelessly thrown about, but failed even at that. It seemed too much like an invasion of privacy. He sat, unmoving, on the foot of the bed, waiting. 

It was a strange thing to wait, he thought. Beyond the appointed days and hours for the operas, there was little to govern how Erik spent his time. His schedules were his own, never dependent on other people. 

Now, he was bound to another person's plans—and a _train_ schedule. 

He decided that he would not think about the train ride. 

Eventually, he set to work on putting on his mask. It seemed only logical to make use of the mask that mimicked a real face in this case. 

He set to carefully laying out his tools— the mask and adhesive, brushes and stage makeup. It was the then that he noticed what was so innocently lying on the dressing table. 

It was the shawl he had lent Nora, folded neatly and with care. He recalled how ill it had suited her. Now, if he were to ever come across a like garment in red, or perhaps some sort of plum… 

…why would he bother buying it? 

He moved the flimsy piece of fabric and set to work. 

________________________________________ 

Grey was a decidedly unflattering color on Nora. It dulled her eyes, and she was convinced that it highlighted every strand of silver in her hair. For all of that, her grey traveling suit was one of her warmest outfits and would never have the distinction of standing out. Discretion seemed to be a very desirable thing when one was traveling with a ghost. 

"Did you take Erik his coffee?" Nora asked, pouring her third cup of the morning. It was as much a nervous habit as it was thirst or hunger. No one had ever said something offensive with a hot beverage in their mouth. 

"Yes, Miss," Mr. Carey replied. He looked distinctly uncomfortable, and Nora smiled at him. 

"Thank you," she said sincerely, "I know you do not approve—" he motioned to contradict her, but Nora continued—"but you have done exceptionally well." 

"I have done my duty," he replied solemnly, but a spark of happiness returned to his eyes. 

"And you've done it well," Nora nodded. She glanced at the clock and switched subjects—neither of them would be comfortable with the previous topic for much longer, anyway. "Are you going on ahead of us?" 

"Yes, Miss, shortly." 

"And I'm sure you've already telegrammed the estate." 

"Last night." 

"Very good,' Nora sipped her coffee, "very good." 

It was not too long after Mr. Carey departed for the train station that Erik came out from his hiding place. 

Nora had not been paying much attention, more concerned with dashing off final letters of business than anything else, but she heard him enter the parlor. 

"Good morning, Erik," she said, "are you all ready to go?" 

"I believe so," he replied. There was a mischievous note in his voice that made Nora look up. 

He was not wearing his mask, she realized. And where was the devil he had claimed was underneath? His features were perfectly ordinary—not handsome, perhaps, but imminently serviceable. 

He looked down in something like embarrassment. "It took me many years to perfect this one," he said, tapping his cheek with one gloved finger. He came closer, and Nora could at last she the edges of the mask. 

"It's another—" 

He nodded solemnly. "It is a mask." His voice was a strange mixture of pride and shame. 

"It's very… convincing," Nora replied, eliciting a smile from Erik. The smile pulled at the mask in odd directions and he ceased the expression. 

"More or less," he said. "I thought it would be best to be inconspicuous." 

Nora recalled her own thoughts in selecting her drab attire. What had inspired their mutual predilection for discretion? She laughed softly. "One would think we were eloping. " 

It occurred to her that this might not have been the best metaphor she could have used, especially when Erik's mask managed to portray slack jawed shock. " _What?_ " 

"I just meant that—well—we're going through an awful lot of trouble to remain anonymous on a short little train ride." 

He huffed. "I beg your pardon for the _inconvenience_." 

"Oh, that's not what I meant," Nora replied. After a beat, she added, "and you _know_ it." 

"I do?" Erik's voice was mercifully changing to slightly playful. "I do." 

Nora glanced at the clock, "the carriage should be coming around in a few minutes. Are you ready?" 

Erik nodded and offered his arm to escort Nora downstairs. 

________________________________________ 

The first half of their journey was both mind-numbing and soul-shattering. Erik found himself in a very private, very well appointed train car, seated across from Nora and her lady's maid. 

The maid talked ceaselessly and in an odd accent that Nora told him was Quebecois. He found that Nora slipped into similar tones around the other girl, though she was just as likely to throw in English words. She often times caught herself and would look at Erik with a light blush in her cheek. 

"And here you thought I was Parisian," she teased. 

"A mistake I will never make again," Erik replied in kind. He found that his voice terrified the chatty lady's maid into silence, which he used to his advantage. Conversation was perhaps the one art he was not adept in, and he spent much of his time petrified that he would say something to offend—or to hurt—or, at the very least, incriminate himself in some way. 

He was saved when the topic turned to opera, though in true Nora fashion, she turned it into a rapid exchange of questions and answers. It had started innocently enough, when she asked, "what is your favorite song from _Faust?_ " 

Erik replied, and after a moment of silence asked her the same question. She answered, and then asked the same thing concerning another opera, and so on. 

Erik found that he almost enjoyed the exchange. " _Norma?_ " he asked. 

"I feel like I ought to say _Casta Diva._ " She replied thoughtfully, "Am I supposed to say _Casta Diva_ , even though I really don't like it?" 

Erik laughed at her. "No, you must say your _actual_ favorite." 

" _In mia man alfin tu sei,_ then. _La Juive?_ " 

Erik hesitated, unable to separate his memory of Christine in the title role and the rest of the opera. "Eleazar's last aria. _The Pearl Fishers?_ " 

" _Au Fond du Temple Saint,_ of course. _Carmen?_ " 

"The Habanera," Erik replied, "in spite of itself. _Fidelio?_ " 

Nora grimaced. "No, thank you. _Les Huguenots_." 

"Ugh. Spare me from all Meyerbeer. Wagner?" 

"What, you can't be bothered to differentiate between his operas?" 

Erik shrugged. "I wasn't aware that there _was_ a difference. So, Wagner?" 

"The prelude from _Parsifal_." 

" _Parsifal?_ " 

"Yes." 

"I've never heard it," Erik admitted, both slightly annoyed and quite curious. 

"I'm not surprised. It's only performed at Bayreuth." 

Erik winced. "Don't remind me that there's a building _exclusively dedicated_ to performing that man's works." 

"Oh, come now," Nora said, "wouldn't you like to see it?" 

"Perhaps," Erik conceded. What a change that would be! He imagined for a moment what it would be like if the train they were on suddenly dropped him in Bavaria. He tried to imagine hiring out a hotel room, or even a townhouse, sightseeing as tourists so typically did. It was too strange to even think about at this point in his life. What was _not_ too odd a thought was escorting Nora, dressed in scandalous but flattering scarlet, into an opera house. That might even prove to be rather… enjoyable. 

What was also enjoyable was that Nora's maid had fallen asleep as they spoke of music. When they ran out of a mutually familiar repertoire, there was comfortable silence. Nora pushed aside the curtains covering the compartment's window and stared out at the rapidly passing countryside, icily desolate though it was. Erik observed her for some minutes, listening to the clack of the train rushing over the rails. 

"I've devoted most of my life to music," he said, instinctively lowering his voice. 

She turned to him, ever so slightly, and smiled. She did not speak. 

"Opera, in my mind, is the zenith of art," Erik continued, "the score, the story, the subject matter; the instruments both musical and vocal, the staging and direction, the cast, the crew—all coming together in harmony." 

"I agree," she murmured. She let the curtain fall. "I think you really must love music." Her expression was inscrutable. 

"It is my life." 

"I rather wish…" she stopped mid-sentence and pointedly resumed her observation of the world outside the train. "I rather wish I loved something like that." 

Erik did not know how to reply, and so chose not to.


	21. Peculiar Graces

Erik thought the worst of the trip was over once they disembarked from the train. He was wrong. He soon found himself in a carriage with all three of his traveling 'companions.' It was warmer and wetter in Beaune than in Paris, and his comfortable overcoat soon felt oppressively heavy. 

If Nora was uncomfortable, she didn't show it. Traveling with her brought to mind those first, fleeting glimpses Erik had seen of her. She carried herself proudly, perhaps even aggressively. Hiding in shadows seemed to be an unimaginable concept to her, despite how Erik continually tried to pull her to the sidelines of a crowd. No, she simply walked into the middle of a mass of people, head held haughtily high, and allowed the crowd to move out of her way. _I am your better_ , she seemed to whispered, _don't you dare step on my skirt._

Erik would have found it amusing, if it had not been so disconcerting. He had come to think of Nora as somewhat gentle: _won't you come as my guest, Erik? Won't you have a cup of coffee, Erik? Won't you sell me part of your soul, Erik?_

Ah, how quickly a few kind words had dulled the memory of her curt 'good mornings' or the undeniable pride that had colored their first few meetings! 

More disconcerting still was how her manner amended as soon as they were away from the train station and into the carriage. Erik could not have conceived of a more uncomfortable mode of travel—both he and Nora _and_ her two servants stuffed into a cramped, jarring box—but her countenance immediately lightened. Gone was the cold, harsh patrician who had managed to cut a wide path for herself through a forest of people. She smiled benignly at Erik and asked Carey for her folios. 

She remained absorbed in these papers for some time, occasionally looking out the window. After some time she reached across and nudged Erik's hand. 

"There. See the stone fence?" 

The rain had dulled to a heavy mist, obscuring what was in the distance, but Erik could see a low stone structure, undoubtedly ancient. "Of course." 

"That's the boundary for Uncle Christian's holdings," she said. 

"Then we are quite close to the house?" Erik asked. 

She consulted one of her papers. "Not particularly." After a moment, she added, "I never met my uncle, but I am under the impression that he never bothered to do things logically. It always seems that, whenever something _does_ make sense in his papers, it was simple happenstance." 

Erik was given to understanding that family was often an appropriate topic of conversation, though the entire subject tended to sadden and irritate him. Still, it seemed like a wise idea to engage in some sort of discussion, given that the uncomfortable coach ride might be quite long. He asked Nora what she knew of her uncle. 

She shrugged. "Precious little. He was the eldest of six siblings—the youngest being my mother—and the only one not to immigrate to Canada. I know that he outlived all of his siblings, which is simple math. I know that his will makes provision for all of the offspring of his siblings, which is essentially my cousin Daniel and myself. He also noted that the eldest male of these should be named executor of the estate, which again would be Daniel. But Daniel is just too blasted busy…" 

"He must have confidence in you," Erik noted, "to entrust you with the task of his inheritance." 

Her eyes flashed for a moment, and Erik knew he had said something wrong. "Daniel knows I'm perfectly capable of dealing with this matter." 

Erik noted her indignant reaction and labeled it as _probable weakness_. 

"Besides," she continued, "he knows that I will probably favor his interests above my own, whereas he would be compelled to be utterly fair and even." 

Erik considered her statement for a moment. "If the will allows for the division to be equal, why would you not do so?" 

She smiled blandly. "I don't have four daughters who will one day need decent dowries." She paused, "don't you dare tell him I said so." 

Erik waved this away. "When would I ever been occasioned to even speak with the man?" 

"Well, he's bound to come out to France eventually," Nora commented. After a moment she checked her watch pin, looked out the window, and then opened the carriage door ever so slightly. Erik nearly moved to pull it closed, but she shook her head. "Hey!" she called out to the coach driver, "How far?" 

The reply was nearly drowned out by the rain and rush of wheels, but Erik heard it. "Two kilometers." 

Mr. Carey muttered, almost too quiet to be heard, " _thank God_." 

Erik agreed with the sentiment, though he believed it probably stemmed from a different set of concerns. 

________________________________________ 

The arrival at the great house of 'Uncle Christian's' estate was not as much of a relief as Erik at first thought it would have been. 

The house was a massive structure in the style popular a hundred years previous, mildly elegant Louis XVI, and its maintenance appeared to have been neglected since then. Not a single one of the windows showed a light, and many of them were broken. 

Nora took Erik's arm after they descended from the carriage. "Well, this should be interesting." 

Waiting for their arrival was an older man and woman, who were soon revealed to be the primary caretakers of the great house. They greeted Nora respectfully, but almost immediately fell into an argument with Carey. They had protested that they had done the best they could in making preparations. The household funds had been depleted for some time, and they did not have access to any of the late owner's accounts. 

"Easily rectified," Nora cut into the conversation. "Mr. Carey, release the needed funds at your discretion, based on Monsieur Fournier's suggestions. Bring in whatever temporary staff is needed to bring the house into smooth operation." 

"Soon?" Fournier asked. 

Nora smiled. "Immediately." She swept past them and into the ill-lit house, dragging Erik with her. "This isn't quite what I had in mind for your little vacation," she admitted. 

Erik looked around the foyer—marble and murals, beautiful furniture and hangings, all in disrepair. There was also a suspicious lack of movable ornaments. Well, the old man and woman needed to claim _some_ sort of salary, he supposed. "Trust me when I say I have been in worse lodgings." 

"So have I," Nora snorted, "but that does not mean I enjoyed myself." 

As soon as Erik saw that Nora was settled in a parlor with a good fire and a bit of brandy, he excused himself to remove the flesh toned mask. The long hours of wear had caused him much irritation, and the sudden humidity of Beaune was threatening to wash away what remained of the adhesive. 

He would be obliged to make all sorts of repairs to the mask before he could wear it again. At least it had served its purpose- he had not observed a single out-of-place glance in his direction for the entire duration of the journey. 

He washed his face and peered into the looking-glass above the basin. Tragic, that an ugly mask was such an improvement over his genuine features. He looked away and covered himself with the white mask. He had noticed that Nora had been a bit disturbed by his black one, though perhaps that had been more to do with the story he was telling her at the time than his mode of dress. 

Best not to think of that. He rejoined Nora, slightly more comfortable. 

She glanced up at him, noted the mask, and smiled. "Fournier has managed to clean up two decent rooms for our use and his wife is currently fixing a good supper. I take it that you would like to have it delivered up to your room?" 

Erik bristled a bit, though he made every effort to conceal it. In his years underground, he had stayed more or less in touch with the world through his reading. He read everything, even silly, inane things like ladies' fashion journals. He recalled one line from such a publications— _the first duty of a hostess is to anticipate the needs of her guests, thus eliminating the uncomfortable need for making requests. It is only when a woman had perfected this art that she can be deemed a truly gracious hostess._ Wasn't that what Nora had done for him? But he could not be as grateful as perhaps he ought to be, for such foresight only served to remind him of the oddity of his situation. 

"Thank you," he said, deeming this the only appropriate response. 

She smiled, and his anger vanished. 

That night, he stumbled through a prayer for the first time in decades. He figured that, even if God did not care about his fate, perhaps he would take an interest in Nora's—Nora, with her mass and black dress and amber rosary. Surely, such devotion had to be repaid in some way. 

_I do not want to hurt her, and I do not want to love her._ Erik mumbled. _And I pray she extends me the same courtesies._

________________________________________ 

Nora was having a good day. If pressed for an answer, she would be obliged to say that every day since her arrival in Beaune—a week ago today!— had been some sort of _good_. Her word, feminine though it was, held more weight when it came from the ancestral seat. Paperwork and legalities seemed to be working themselves out, and the entire estate seemed poised to be restored to some sort of glory—or, at least, habitability. 

And then there was Erik, who was as helpful and solicitous as one could want. His knowledge of property law may have been theoretical, but his experience with construction and contractors was enormously practical. More than that, however, he was _amusing_ , far more so than Nora would have ever expected. They did not dine together, save the occasionally tea or coffee respite, but he was elsewise always at her disposal. They walked around the barren vineyards, chatting about nonsense. In the evenings, he revealed a talent for all sorts of legerdemain and improbably elaborate magic tricks. Nora would question him on them, and he would evade with often humorous results. 

They did not talk about the reason he was with her, namely to avoid the rather benevolent plans of Christine de Chagny. That suited Nora just fine. No matter what she thought of Erik personally, she could not claim to be comfortable with the tale he had told her involving the Countess. The thought occurred that she might even have received a sanitized version, which disturbed her. 

The other topic they religiously avoided—at least, Nora avoided it. It was impossible to say if Erik had even thought of it—was Nora's departure. Even if Daniel continued to delay, he would eventually come. And when that happened, why would Nora stay? Her purpose for being in France would soon vanish—and then what? She did not _stay_ places. She did not _keep in touch_ with the acquaintances she made on her travels. She left, she moved on, she did not look back— 

But what a shame to leave her _Erik…_

No, she would not think of that. For the moment she was here, and she was having a grand old time. Perhaps she would persuade Erik to come out for another afternoon walk with her. He could be such a good distraction. 

Erik had unofficially claimed the tiny west parlor, which was in decent shape and far from any of the ongoing repair work around the house. Last Nora had seen, he had been working on restoring an old, damaged violin found in the attic. 

Nora opened the door, expecting to see Erik at the little side desk. "Would you be willing to brave the weather and—" she fell silent. Well, there was Erik's violin, Erik's hat, Erik's shoes—where was Erik? 

She caught sight of him, sound asleep, head partially under a pillow. The divan was much too short to accommodate his height, but he had managed to curl up in what appeared to be a rather uncomfortable fashion. 

She chuckled softly and turned to retrieve some sort of coverlet for him. Her foot struck against something and she looked down. 

His mask had slipped to the floor and Nora went to pick it up. She held it for a moment, admiring the craftsmanship. It was heavier than she had expected. The inside was lined with silk and looked as if it could be removed and replaced with ease. She turned to set it down beside Erik and stopped. 

How foolish she was not to realize it—if Erik's mask had fallen off, it clearly meant that he was barefaced. Nora leaned down and returned the mask to the floor. 

He moved in his sleep, and the pillow fell off as well. Nora remained frozen in place, until she was sure that he was not awakening. 

Walk out, her mind whispered, he never wanted you to see him like this—walk out now. 

Instead she turned, and looked at him. 

Nora had believed Erik when he had attested to his 'hideous deformity,' but she had not given it much thought. Somehow, his mask and his face had blurred in her mind. Smooth, expressionless, cold, and with an austere sort of beauty. It had never occurred to her that the elegant line of the mask's nose was not contoured to his real nose or that his always concealed upper lip might have been twisted as well as thin. 

If he had just one or two elements of his peculiar features, he might have been tolerable to look at. But all together!— too-prominent eye sockets, razor-sharp cheekbones, jaundiced skin that was thin enough to reveal the network of veins beneath it, the scars that laced his features, his nose, or rather lack thereof. In repose, his features were unfortunate and grotesque. She could not imagine him awake, a misshapen skull alive and expressive. 

At that moment, he grimaced in his sleep, and Nora knew she had to leave. She tried to be as silent as he would have been, closing the door with barely a whisper. 

She managed to walk, even and composed, until she found Mr. Carey. "Erik is resting in the west parlor. Make sure he is undisturbed." 

Mr. Carey accepted these odd instructions, and Nora continued to walk on to her own rooms. The house seemed so much larger, the corridors so much more labyrinthine. At last she arrived and locked the door behind her. 

She simply stood for the longest time, her breath starting to become uneven. 

Then, feeling vain and vapid, furious at herself and heaven above, she cried.


	22. Evaded Cadence

Erik awoke with his back in spasms and fingertips frozen. 

There was much to be said concerning the improvements Nora and her ready coffers were making to the old house; warmth was not one of them. Erik supposed he had suffered worse, but that did not alleviate the chill currently in his bones. He sat up and stretched, indignant at losing what little warmth had settled over the too-small loveseat. Even his _face_ was cold— 

He put a hand to his face, and upon discovering it uncovered, launched into a search for his mask. He found it very close by on the floor. 

After putting it back on, he looked around for signs of anyone else having been in the room. Nothing was out of place, nothing suggested an intrusion. Not to mention that, _had_ someone entered the room and seen Erik, he would surely know about it. People could rarely remain silent when confronted with his face. 

At last, his heartbeat started to slow to normal again. This was a small error that he would not make again. He was clearly too comfortable here, caught in some sort Nora-induced fantasy. It was easy to forget, with her quiet laughter and easy acceptance of Erik's foibles, that this was not reality. It felt real, it seemed real, but Erik was convinced that it was nothing more than an expertly staged production. 

He would enjoy the performance, but not allow himself to become invested in the story. Such had been his mantra for some days, but it was growing harder to live by. 

Ah, but there was the mask, always ready and willing to remind him. 

He emerged from the parlor, trying to pull out the creases in his coat. He walked towards Nora's de facto office. She had directed the workers to move a large desk into the main parlor, which now dominated an otherwise genteel space. Such was Nora. 

He was surprised to find the room deserted. It was after five o'clock. She would not be out, he figured, nor would she be already dining. He turned to exit and nearly ran into Carey. 

The man's glares had become slightly more resigned and slightly less hostile, but Erik always knew when he was not wanted. 

"Where is Nora?" Erik asked him. 

"Miss Farley," Carey began, "went out for a walk." 

Erik glanced back into the parlor and out the large window there. It was raining. "In this weather?" 

"She could not be persuaded against it," Carey admitted. His tone suggested that he had tried to offer as much persuasion as was allowed by his position. 

"Which way did she go?" Erik asked. 

Carey hesitated for a moment. "In the direction of the vineyards, I believe. …shall I get your coat and an umbrella, sir?" 

Erik nodded. It was not lost on him that this was the first _offer_ of help Carey had ever made to him. He set off without delay. 

The rain was not as bad in reality as it had first appeared, and his vision of a shivering and soaked Nora disappeared when he saw her. She wore oilskins over a hunting dress, with heavy boots and a large umbrella. At the moment, she wasn't even subject to the rain, as she was leaning against the old wine storage building, protected by the awning. 

Erik came to stand next to her without a word. 

After some time, she said, "I was rather hoping to see you this evening, Erik." 

"Indeed." 

"You always cheer me up," she said. 

If Erik had found himself in this situation some weeks ago—which, of course, he would not have— he would have mistakenly believed that Nora was angry. She was short, her words clipped, her gaze was like flint. He had started to realize that this was not true anger, but her version of melancholia. "I'm afraid that I've never been a cheery individual myself." 

"Nonetheless," she kept her eyes fixed out on the barren, rain soaked vineyards. 

Erik remained silent and confused for some time. Did she actually expect him to do something to bring her out of whatever gloomy mood she was suffering from? On that score, why had Erik even bothered to come out to see her, if not to offer his help? But the idea that he might actually _cheer_ someone—impossible. 

_Everything about your life here is impossible,_ a voice whispered in his mind. It sounded suspiciously like Christine. _No one has ever needed you in this fashion. No one had ever tolerated you in this fashion. Fifty years, Erik, fifty years. If this was possible, don't you think it would have happened sooner?_

"What's the matter?" he asked, trying to be soft, trying to be gentle. Had he ever been either before? Oh, he had tried for Christine, but he could only succeed in being a dog for her. Docile and loyal, yes, but ultimately still an animal. 

Nora's smile flickered in and then out of existence. "It's nothing—it's—" she paused and then turned to face Erik, leaning with one shoulder on the wall. She observed him unabashedly, eyes dancing over his mask, his rain spotted coat, the mud on his shoes. "Have you ever been upset by something that would not normally bother you?" 

Erik eyed her curiously. "No." 

She smiled again, equally briefly. "Must be a woman's weakness." 

Erik tried again. "What bothered you, Nora?" 

"Oh, nothing, really," she said, "just a thought, really. A passing thought that made everything else seem so much worse." She pushed away from the building and motioned for Erik to follow her back in the direction of the house. "I must be getting old." 

"I hardly think so," Erik replied quickly. She had never mentioned her age but Erik could tell that she was his junior by several years at least, and beautiful at that. 

"Oh, it doesn't bother me," she shrugged. "I'll get to play at the role of batty old spinster." She fell silent for a few more minutes. "It's sure to amusing." 

________________________________________ 

"Thank you for seeing me, Monsieur Moncharmin." Christine held out her hand and the manager elaborately pantomimed a kiss over it. Real life, she had found, was not so far removed from the theater as she had first believed. Exaggerated gestures, voices pitched to emphasize one meaning over another, roles assigned and assumed. If that was not theater, what was? 

After returning to Paris from the wonderful months spent in the far North with Raoul, Christine had started to craft her own role in the world. A little cold, a little detached, but devoted to her husband and the family she had acquired with him. 

Raoul had laughed at her pleasantly when she debuted this addition to her repertoire. "Paris will make a legitimate countess out of you yet!" he had exclaimed. 

Christine would have been stung by his words, had she not known how Raoul was plagued by thoughts of being an 'illegitimate' count. He took shelter in that one great recourse of men— _career_. What could Christine hide her doubts behind, save theatrics? 

It seemed perfectly effective, as Moncharmin flailed and fell all over himself, trying to make her comfortable. He returned to his desk chair only after having made every gracious offer of footstool—drink—anything at all-- 

Christine smiled at him, allowing a shade of warmth to color her words. "I must say, Monsieur Moncharmin, how pleased I have been to see the Garnier. It seems to have just flourished under your guidance." 

Moncharmin looked predictably smug. Ah! Young men with their young egos, destined to become old men with old egos, were easy to flatter. He played his role perfectly, with a neat half bow and a courteous, "your servant, Madame." 

They chatted lightly for a brief period of time, until Christine could almost be sure that he would agree to her request. 

This was a last resort, of course. She had tried to gain entry to Erik's home with the aid of the Daroga. But the man's interest and fervent support had waned in a curious way. They had found the Rue Scribe entrance blocked off, and while the Daroga had seemed intent on searching the area for something, his mind did not fully seem to be on the task at hand. 

"Erik blocked our paths," he said mildly. "Perhaps his way of releasing you from your promise." 

Christine could not abide by that, but had put on a good show of being resigned for the good Persian's benefit. Her options were running low, but perhaps— 

"Monsieur," she began, "I have a great favor to ask of you." 

Moncharmin, of course, replied with hearty acquiescence. 

"I want," Christine began carefully, "to go down to the cellars." 

Well, that brought the conversation to a standstill. Moncharmin regarded her curiously. "The cellars?" 

"Yes." She observed him as carefully and discreetly as she could. At the moment, he did not seem inclined to grant her wish, but perhaps… "Monsieur, do not pretend to be unfamiliar with the sad tale of what happened to me here at the Garnier." 

He had protested that he knew only that she met her husband here—was that such a tragedy? 

"I speak," Christine pressed on, "of the affair of the Phantom of the Opera." Moncharmin blanched, and his eyes roved about the room, as if searching the shadows. "I see you are familiar with the story." 

"Superstition," Moncharmin countered, though it was clearly a superstition he believed in. 

"Come now, Monsieur," Christine said, "surely you are aware of what occurred—it was the talk of the company. I disappeared directly from the stage." 

Moncharmin's expression became blasé. "A clever trick of the then-Viscount, it is believed." Christine fixed him with an intent stare, and he eventually sighed. "I am familiar with the _story_ , Madame Countess—you'll forgive me for disbelief that you were kidnapped by a shade." 

"It is true," Christine stated, and let the words hang dramatically in the air. "And he was not a ghost—he was a man, a genius, and he lived beneath the opera house." 

At last, she had the satisfaction of seeing Moncharmin pale. "Indeed?" 

"Yes. He is dead now," Christine said, "and I have taken on the task of seeing that the man—the monster, yes, but still a man—is given a proper burial." 

The silence threatened to go on indefinitely until Moncharmin finally mumbled. "We are at your disposal, Countess." 

There! Those were the words she wished to hear. She briefly outlined her plan, and the route she intended to take, before rising. "I thank you, Monsieur—" she prepared to offer her hand again to Moncharmin, but the man was silent and his face was drawn. 

He glanced up at Christine with a strange urgency in his eyes. "Countess, would you do _me_ a great favor?" 

Christine nodded. He rifled through his drawers and produced a piece of stationery. He handed it to her. 

At first, it was simply the red ink that arrested her attention. Red like blood, red like death. Slowly, other details emerged. The poorly shaped letters, only a few of which were properly connected. At the end, the signet of 'O.G.' She forced herself to read the missive. 

Monsieur Manager, 

I have attached a list of repairs I feel vital to the on-going success of the Garnier. I realize that such renovations might be quite costly. I therefore submit that you withhold my salary for the next six weeks, the amount coming to approximately 28,000 francs. 

After the six weeks elapse, I will expect my salary to be submitted again in the usual way and in a timely fashion. 

Your Obedient Servant, etc… 

Christine refolded the note and handed it back to Moncharmin. "So?" 

"Countess," Moncharmin was clearly troubled, and leaned across his desk to look Christine in the eyes. "Is that the writing of _your_ opera ghost?" 

What harm could there be in admitting it? "Yes." After a moment she asked, "Where did you get that note, Monsieur Moncharmin?" 

"It was delivered to me at the beginning of the month," he said. 

Christine felt her stomach tighten. "This month?" she repeated. Her character—grand Countess Christine!—disappeared. She felt barely-twenty again, under the thrall of Erik's voice. Good God, he could be in the walls even now, listening! 

Moncharmin nodded. 

Christine arose. "In that case, Monsieur, my plan is a… premature one. I would be foolish—and _you_ would be foolish—to go down to the cellars. It is _his_ domain, and he does not take kindly to trespassers." 

Moncharmin was soon on his feet, "but, Countess— to be able to confront him! We shall go with guards, we shall—" 

"No, Monsieur," Christine said, "as long as Erik lives, nothing can compel me to step foot in… here." 

________________________________________ 

Nora had suddenly become religious. 

Oh course, Nora had always been religious to Erik's knowledge. But she had taken to attending mass on weekdays as well as Sunday and he often saw her engaging in brief rosary devotions. Her manners had altered slightly, and there was a sadness in her eyes that Erik found to be intolerable. 

It had started with that rainy walk in the vineyards, but had only grown worse. He tried to ask her again what might be wrong, but botched the question terribly. Nora simply shrugged and said it was the dreary weather. 

He believed her for a half a minute. 

The first week of their trip to Beaune had been so pleasant, Erik recalled. Oh, the house had been a disaster, and Nora was often running off to meet this person or that person, but she always lit up when Erik came to keep her company. It had been a surreal experience at the time, to see someone seem so glad to be with him. Just as he started to accept it, she stopped. Was it possible that he had simply imagined her tender eyes during the course of the previous days? 

It seemed likely now, as she haunted the repaired halls. Oh, she took care of her business with her typical aplomb, and occasionally her smile would still reach her eyes. But then they would always settle on Erik, and she would grow sad again. 

The weather, indeed! 

Erik's concern turned to agitation and the agitation to anger. What sort of cruel mockery was this? Bring Erik away from Paris, make him live as a normal man, and then reject him? 

He seethed for days with that thought. He could tell that Nora saw his anger, but she said nothing. Nothing! 

It was the middle of December, the weather was truly abysmal, and they were reaching their second week of impasse. 

Erik did what he could—he packed, and appeared in Nora's parlor with his suitcase in hand. 

"I've decided to return to Paris," he said. There was nothing warm in his tone, nothing hurt. Simple, cold facts. 

She looked up to him and the papers in her hands slipped to the floor, "Erik, I—" He almost abandoned his plan then, looking at her. He did not know when he started to think of her as _beautiful_ , as opposed to his first impression of simple _elegance_. But it was undeniable fact, for she looked like some master's masterwork, cheeks too pale, eyes too green, a spark of life in a dull and grey world. 

No, not life—merely the illusion of life. Nora was the great illusionist, Erik decided, far surpassing his own talents in that respect. He created situations; she created worlds and futures and then let them shatter. 

His inspiration for his undertaking returned, and he held up his hand. "I am grateful that you allowed me to be your guest for so long, but I can no longer impose." 

She looked shocked. "Oh, honestly—" 

"Fournier has already called a carriage for me, it should be here shortly," Erik nodded. "So, in the interests of time, a simple thank you will have to suffice. Farewell." 

He did not allow her the opportunity to reply, merely turned about and walked away. 

He did not make it to the front door. He was compelled to stop when he heard her chair crash to the floor, and soon found Nora quite literally running after him. She reached out, desperate, and held on to Erik's wrist. 

"For the love of God, let me explain," she exclaimed. Her eyes were wide and wild. Her voice dropped once she had Erik's attention. " _Please._ " 

Erik stared at her and then nodded briefly. What could she possibly say? 

Apparently, she did not know the answer to that question either. She fell silent, and pushed her fingers though her hair. "All right. All right. I know I've been treating you just abominably recently—" 

Erik nearly laughed at her. Abominably? Oh, perhaps he was a little disappointed in her, perhaps a little hurt. But had he been treated abominably? Hardly. She had such a talent for overstatement. "I am not leaving because of how you have treated me," he replied. It was not entirely false. 

"Then why?" she asked. She would not let go of his wrist. 

"I think I ought to return to the opera house," Erik replied, "I have a feeling that Christine must have moved on by now. It ought to be safe." 

"Give me a few hours," she said, "we can all leave together." 

Oh, what fresh hell! Erik could not help the venom that came out in his next words. "Oh, indeed? What happened to your abominable treatment of me?" 

"Let me explain," she repeated, "oh, Erik, something terrible happened a few weeks ago." 

Yes, well, he knew that. _What_ was plaguing her was still a mystery. He had devoted much time to that thought. There was an issue with the bank around the time she had started to behave strangely. Something to do with back payment of her uncle's former staff. There had been a flurry of telegrams between her and her cousin. And of course, there had been the afternoon when Erik accidentally fell asleep without his mask… It was not that, at least. If she had stumbled upon him in such a state, surely she would have turned him out immediately. What else, then?... 

"I realized that I would be leaving," she said. 

A strange statement. Leaving Beaune? Of course, she would. There had been a time, which now seemed rather far off, that Erik had looked forward to returning with her to Paris, treating her again to the opera. "And?" 

"And the thought depressed me," she said, "oh, God, I can tell you—the thought of leaving you—" 

"Leaving me?" Erik repeated, incredulous. Little memories started to return. _Paris was not a permanent address… return home by January._ Ah, it was coming up soon, wasn't it? But the idea that it _saddened her…_ "Don't toy with me, Nora." 

"I am not," she said, "there were... other things, too, but I could have carried on in spite of them, if it wasn't for this one terrible thought." She finally let go of Erik, and laughed. "Oh, that just sounds foolish. I can't remember being so foolish in years." For the first time in so many days, her expression softened. "I will miss you, Erik. But instead of enjoying having you around now, I simply gave myself over to my silliness. I do that, I warn you." 

Erik tried to recall if, in all of the deceptions Christine had ever bewitched him with, she had ever looked so sincere. He set down his valise and after a moment of hesitation, extended his hand to Nora. She grabbed onto it at once and held fast. "I shall make you a deal, Nora." 

"Hm?" 

"When it comes time for us to part—" strange, how the idea filled him dread, though just moments ago he was ready to leave Nora utterly behind—"I shall show you my face. You will not regret the parting then." 

She smiled at him softly. "Believe me, Erik. It won't make the slightest difference."


	23. A Triumph of Sorts

Nora had practically snatched Erik's valise away from him after he agreed to continue on as her guest. She had spent the rest of the evening with him, as if she was trying to make up for her previous behavior. 

Erik had to smile at her earnestness, her artless belief that she would not mind his face. What a curious woman—she took all the blame, all of the responsibility of the previous tension onto herself. As those uncomfortable weeks melted into the past, Erik had a hard time believing that Nora was ever to blame. They walked for hours in spite of the weather, they talked at all times of day. A casual meeting in a hallway often turned into half a day in her company. They tackled issues of the house's maintenance, and Erik delighted in surprising her with some needed repair cleverly executed. 

A piano was discovered in the unused wing of the house and Nora had it moved into the same parlor as her desk. 

"Do you think you can tune it?" she asked. 

"Of course," Erik replied with pride. How nice it was to see her eyes light up in response! 

Erik valiantly pushed the voice away that mocked him. _Here now is your living bride, your wife to take out on Sundays. I dare you to place your kiss on her lips and watch her eyes melt in horror._

There was no mention of romance, though Nora was so often tender with him. Erik did not dare to think of it in too much detail. The idea repelled as much as it appealed. 

_I charge you—if you are occasioned to love again, will you do a better job of it?_

How had Erik replied to her judgment of his character and subsequent command? _I shall serve my sentence, Madame._

Alas—the best way to survive such a punishment was to simply not love at all. Erik forced his melancholy away and tried to enjoy the simple of pleasure of living as an ordinary man, bachelor though he was. 

________________________________________ 

Nora's meeting with the local banker and solicitor had gone decently. She had finally come to a permanent arrangement for the ongoing upkeep of the house and vineyards, regardless of who might take up residency. On her way home, she stopped by the post office to dash off a telegram to Daniel. He would likely be pleased with the outcome. At this rate, there would be precious little for him to do once he arrived—just the way he liked it. 

Nora had the hired carriage drop her off a little distance from the house. It was starting to look quite stately, she thought. Progress could only be made so quickly with the weather, but the local hired men seemed to be putting their soul into the work. Money was an amazing incentive, particularly when it was made available in a typically slow season for business. 

She would love to see the place in late summer, when the grape vines were rich with fruit and the sky radiant blue. Did anything prevent her from staying until then? Even if Daniel did decide to take up residence—an improbable scenario if there ever was one—he would not begrudge Nora's presence. She shook the thought away. It sounded like a plan for the future, and she loathed making _those._

She continued on into the building. The issue of heat was slowly being solved and she did not hesitate to remove her gloves. 

A faint sound tickled at her ears. As she drew closer to the parlor, the melody grew more distinct. It was a beautiful, unfamiliar song that threatened to break her heart and the make the pieces of it soar to heaven. 

She was not surprised to see Erik at the piano. His hands danced over the keys, never seeming to quite set down upon them. She remembered how carelessly he had pecked at his own piano the morning after he had locked her in his guest room. He had been so nonchalant about it at the time, but the tunes had been stirring. She was almost thankful that he did not bother to use the instrument to its full potential. 

"You can come in, you know," he said, his back still turned away from the door. 

"I'm just listening," Nora replied. 

"Well, you can listen from the settee," he shot back, his tone vaguely amused. 

Nora did not quite heed his instructions. She came into the room and stood near to the piano. Erik glanced at her, but did not stop playing. The melody altered ever so slightly, and Nora had the strangest desire to smile like a madwoman. How _happy_ the song sounded! She could almost believe that Erik was happy, as well. 

She looked away, feeling as if she was something of a nuisance. Her eye fell on a small stack of papers on the side table. Plain stationery had been transformed into neat staff paper, riddled with notes. Only the strange shape of the letters used for the dynamics notations hinted that the music had been written with Erik's pen. 

He glanced at her again. "Do you read music?" 

"I'm the only daughter of a city gentleman and his socially ambitious wife—what do you think?" 

"I wouldn't know," he replied, "but I shall take your tone as an affirmative answer. What do you think?" 

Nora tried to answer honestly, but could not even imagine how some of the phrases would come to life. "I've never seen anything like this." 

"Of course not," Erik sounded quite proud. "One day, I should like to hear you play. It is the piano, isn't it?" 

Nora nodded before realizing that he could not see her. "I was taught to play... parlor music. I'd be ashamed for you to hear me." Nora finally took a seat. "You once mentioned that you intended as a young man to compose an opera to surpass _Rusalka_ —" 

"Not a high ambition," Erik said. 

"Well, did you?" 

He stopped playing, and Nora immediately missed the music. "I did. My opera—my _Don Juan Triumphant_ — why, you will think me most conceited, but I tell you truthfully, it surpasses _Rusalka_ , and _Carmen_ , and _Faust_ , and even _Don Giovanni_." 

Nora cast a look over to the seemingly innocent stack of compositions. "I think I might believe you." 

Satisfied with this response, he returned his full attention to the piano. 

"I do feel compelled to ask," Nora began, "what makes your Don Juan 'triumphant?' Besides the obvious innuendo, of course." 

Erik laughed sharply and turned to Nora with sparkling eyes. "I confess, _that_ is not the actual intent of the title. My Don triumphs because he never gets his just punishment. He is a vile seducer, who lives merrily on while the innocent suffer. There is no Commendatore to drag him to Hell, and those he hurts are not able to move forward with their lives as if he never entered them." 

"Ah, art imitating life then?" 

"Exactly." 

"Have you done anything else besides your _Don Juan Triumphant_?" 

Erik looked away. "It took me twenty years to compose—I never expected to do _anything_ after it was finished." 

There was more to that answer than he was saying, Nora thought. She stood and put a hand on Erik's shoulder. "I think you ought to." 

Almost too quietly to hear, Erik replied, "Perhaps I will." 

________________________________________ 

Nora attended Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve, which did not surprise Erik. She had invited him to come along, but Erik declined. The only reason he could think of for attending was to make sure Nora was properly escorted. This was a moot point, considering that most of the staff, even Carey, would be at the church that night. 

Erik still found himself compelled to wait up until the party returned. He sat at the piano and tinkered until it was nearly two in the morning. At last, he heard the carriage roll up to the entry way and there was a rush of activity. 

If he focused, he could hear Nora chatting in English. As she drew closer to the parlor, he could hear Carey responding in turn. He stood as she swept into the room, the butler following her closely. She wore her royal blue velvet coat again and a mantilla in the Spanish fashion. It was constructed of fine white lace, and if Erik squinted he could almost see it as a wedding veil. She smiled at him. 

"Why, Erik!" she said. "Still up at this ungodly hour?" 

Erik inclined his head slightly. "Did you… enjoy yourself?" 

She nodded. "I was just sending Mr. Carey to bring out a good cognac. May I interest you in a glass?" 

Erik shook his head. "I simply wanted to see you home safe." 

She arched an eyebrow. "It's an 1811." 

"You said a _good_ cognac," Erik paused, "not a _legendary_ cognac." 

She smiled and glanced back at Carey. "A glass for me, a glass for Erik, and a glass for yourself, Mr. Carey." 

He nodded and disappeared. 

"So, how did you amuse yourself while I was away?" 

"Oh, it was very dull," Erik replied. "You've poisoned me for solitude." 

"Oh, glad to hear it." She didn't bother sitting down, merely walked the parameter of the room and stopped in front of the window. A layer of frost obscured the view. "Have you ever observed Christmas?" 

"No," Erik replied. "Does that bother you?" 

She shook her head. "Not in the least, though I suppose it ought to. But I've never claimed to be a _good_ Christian." 

"I wouldn't know how to tell the difference," Erik said, "though I think you might be rather good." 

She smiled at him but did not reply. 

Carey returned with a tray. A decanter and three crystal snifters were set out. He poured the cognac with practiced ease. 

Nora handed a glass to Erik and then raised her own. "To my two favorite men. This might just be the best Christmas I've had in years." 

It took Erik a moment to realize that she was referring to _him_ , as well as Carey. One look at the other man confirmed that he had a similar thought. Regardless, they both raised their glasses. Erik could take a small sip around his mask. He had never managed to procure a bottle of comet year cognac for himself, and it was remarkably fine. 

They stood about for a few more minutes before Nora took her leave. She kissed Erik's cheek and reminded Carey with mock severity that he was not on duty tomorrow and that she would take it badly if she saw him working. 

Carey bowed properly, and Nora left the room with a cheerful _goodnight._

Erik was a bit at a loss of what to do. Engage Carey in conversation? Set down his barely-touched glass and take his leave? 

He was not obliged to decide on what to do, as Carey turned to him gravely. "I've been hoping to have a word with you, sir." 

"Indeed?" Erik asked. There was something in Carey's tone that he did not like, and the unwelcoming look in his eyes was still present. 

The older man nodded and took a large swallow of his drink. "I hope you will forgive me for stepping out of my place, but I think this needs to be said." 

Erik had to wonder what Carey's 'place' really was in relation to Erik's own. "Proceed, Monsieur." 

There was a long pause. "Anyone who looks at my mistress knows her to be a woman of the world," Carey began, "well-bred, well-educated, well-traveled. I have yet to meet a woman her equal. She is kind, she is poised, and her mind is as keen as any man's. But in some respects, she is still very much a child. Her idea of love is stuck firmly on the first day of her acquaintance with the thoroughly misnamed Mr. Worthy. It is as if she is nineteen and naïve to boot. She does not _think_ about certain things—for instance, the utter, utter impropriety of having you come along as her guest! Foolishness, of the most thoughtless measure." 

Erik merely stared at Carey, eyes wide. He could not recall Carey having ever addressed more than ten words together towards Erik. Was the man drunk? He hardly seemed so, despite the empty snifter in his hand. 

"As for you, _Monsieur Erik_ ," Carey continued, "I was sure that you were a devious man of the first order, intent on exploiting my mistress's one weakness." Erik moved to protest, but Carey held up a hand. "But I have been convinced that, in these matters, you are just as much a child as she is. I do not know what has happened in your life to prevent you from attaining the social maturity I would expect from a gentleman of your bearing… but I do not think you _mean_ any harm." 

"You are correct in that," Erik murmured. "But she is still most fortunate to have such a loyal… defender." 

Carey snorted. "I have served her family for nearly fifty years. I was a footman to her grandfather, and her father's batman during the Opium War. When he left England for Canada, so did I. I held _her_ in my arms when she was just hours old and I've watched her grow into a commendable woman, stalwart in heart and steady of nerves." He chuckled dryly, "perhaps those are not the words a man uses to flatter a lady, but they are true." He turned to look at Erik, up and down, harsh and critical. "If I am wrong about you, if you really are the villain I first took you to be, if you try to tarnish her name or abuse her honor—it will not matter that I am an old man, for my blade is still sharp and my aim is still true." 

He left Erik without waiting for a formal dismissal. 

Erik watched him retreat. What a strange world he had been dropped into, where one person shielded another out of—what? Duty? Loyalty? Or was it a sort of love? If so, what a curious variety! 

Erik set down his glass, turned to the piano, and played soft melodies until dawn. 

________________________________________ 

1885! Nora had seldom felt the passing of the old year into the new so keenly. 1885! She had been in France for over six months now, half of that time with Erik as company. Had it really been so brief a time? Had they really gone from nameless passers-by to uncomfortable companions to friends to _confidants_ so quickly? 

Nora allowed herself to be reckless with Erik. She flirted and teased like a girl half her age. Erik slowly fell into the friendly pattern. By the time they boarded the train to return to Paris, he would laugh genuinely and occasionally make his own razor-sharp witticisms. Nora sat next to him in their compartment, ignoring Perrine's wide eyes and Erik's stiff posture. 

The mutual good humor slowly dampened as they drew closer to their destination. A strange silence fell over them. At some point, Nora found her hand in Erik's. She kept it there until the train stopped. 

Their arrival was surreal— _I'm home,_ Nora thought, _no, I'll be obliged to go home soon. I might never see Beaune again. I might never see Erik again. Perhaps I'll never see Canada again…_

Erik interrupted her chaotic thoughts. "I trust Monsieur Carey will get you home safely." 

Nora nearly said, _but Erik, aren't you coming with me?_ Of course he wasn't. He had his home, and it was mere blocks away. "I'm sure he shall." 

They stood facing one another in the middle of the busy station, and Nora realized that she had taken hold of his hand again. She released it with something like regret. 

"I'll see you on Sunday," Erik said. 

"Or sooner," Nora said, "you are always welcome in my home." 

He bowed his head. "Or sooner." He melted into the crowd and vanished.


	24. La Paloma

It was astounding how utterly silent the house was. Oh, there was the gentle ebb and flow of the lake, the distant noise of the Garnier's daily business far above, the creaks that any house made at any given time… but silence, still. How quickly Erik had accustomed himself to the noisy operation of a regular house! And how the quiet now crawled under his skin and threatened to ruin him! 

He remembered the same mad feeling plaguing him after he had released Christine, but the quiet and loneliness had been dulled by the far stronger force of despair. No, he was not despairing at the moment, which he supposed was heartening. But the seclusion—how did he ever deal with being so cut off from everything? Erik firmly reminded himself that he had been cut off from the world since he _came into_ the world. 

He distracted himself with getting his home back into working order, clearing away some of the more inconvenient obstacles he had set up, stocking his kitchen. 

He was not looking forward to cooking his own meals again. Or making is own bed. Or keeping his own company. 

Domestic chores satisfied, Erik sought out something to pass the time and fill the silence. Mischief did not appeal, and he was in no mood to deal with Moncharmin. 

In moments of such boredom, Erik occasionally referred to Theodore Lajarte's index of the scores contain the in Opera's library. He would seek out some new title and amuse himself with it. Usually, he would simply play it through a few times on his piano, committing it to memory if the piece struck his fancy. He would sometimes transcribe it for his personal library, his notes penned in his favored red ink but neater and more precise than the formation of his letters. 

He acquired, on this occasion, Iradier's ubiquitous "La Paloma" to amuse himself with. Erik had played the song by ear before but had never bothered looking at the sheet music. It was a simple tune, but Erik liked the habanera rhythm. He found himself twisting the music around a dozen ways, until only the vaguest suggestion of the original material remained. 

He managed to keep it light and romantic for some time, until his ever-present frustrations bled over and turned the music gloomy. He pushed aside "La Paloma" and ran a hand through his sparse hair. Only his corpse hands could take such a pretty, innocent little song and tint it so seamlessly with malice and madness. There had been a time in his life that he had been able to do exactly the opposite—conceal the indecency of his mind with smoke and mirrors and an angel's voice. His skills in this regard had been at their zenith when he had tutored Christine. Where were they now? It seemed that ever since his return from Beaune, his musical touch had turned venomous. Nora's suggestion to _compose something else_ hung heavily above him. 

Erik wanted to believe that this was merely another one of the black moods that he had dealt with for decades—nothing more than a bit of bad temper, brought on by nothing more than dark life and damp weather. That was perhaps the root of the issue, but beyond that there was one grave irritant that Erik had been trying to ignore. 

He missed Nora. It had been two days since they had parted—it would be more than three days until he saw her again. (This was, to his mind, a gross injustice.) He turned every part of their time together over and over his mind, examining it from all angles. 

The idea of friendship had been on his mind for some time. Perhaps this really was, as she had said, what a _friend_ was. Erik found that he liked the idea, as much as it horrified him. 

Erik knew that his concept of friendship varied greatly from the norm. A friend was a sort of possession. Someone to watch, to study, to gain from. A friend was someone one had the right to exploit with impunity, to manipulate without the fear of discovery. Like the Daroga— favors and disfavors exchanged to equal measure, with Erik always having the upper hand. 

It seemed wrong—immoral—to categorize Nora as 'friend,' if that was the definition he was using. 

But if she was not his friend, what was she? An apparition? Her Catholic faith allowed for the appearance of saints and deities—was that all she was? An elaborate, heaven-sent joke? From what Erik knew of God, he would not put behavior beyond him. 

The monotony was finally broken late the next evening, when Erik heard the curious sound of someone knocking at his door. He met his visitor with catgut lasso in hand, though it would not have done much good. Nadir stood impassively, with his elbow crooked and his hand touching his hat. 

Erik was amused. "Why, Daroga! You've never bothered _knocking_ before!" 

"I have never had an official invitation before," Nadir said. As if to verify his statement, he pulled out the note Erik had posted to him upon returning to Paris. "You addressed me as 'Nadi-joon.' I take it you're mocking me." 

"Naturally." 

"Am I allowed to return to mockery and call you 'Erik dear?'" 

"No," Erik stood aside and let Nadir in. "Into the parlor, my good man." 

Nadir froze mid-step and turned to look at Erik. "What is _wrong_ with you?" 

"I'm a bit offended that you think something _needs_ to be wrong with me," Erik replied, directing Nadir into a chair. 

The Daroga's voice became a bit softer. "Are you dying?" 

"Well, I can't, now that you've refused to pray for my soul," Erik shot back. 

"And where did you _go?_ —" 

"I did not ask you to come," Erik dropped his voice to a tone he knew Nadir would not ignore, "to interrogate me, Monsieur Inspector." 

Nadir huffed and helped himself to the tea Erik had set out. "Which begs the question—why _am_ I here?" 

"Isn't it obvious?" Erik said. "Tell me what happened with Christine." 

Nadir gave up his adversarial amicability at once. "Ah, that." 

"Yes, _ah, that._ " 

"As I said," Nadir began, "the Countess was… determined. We went to the Rue Scribe and found the entrance impassible, of course. What we did _not_ find was that letter you said you would be putting there—" 

"I decided against it," Erik replied. 

"Of course you did. I realized that, after getting down on my hands and knees and looking at every crevice, while the Countess was ready to find some miner and clear the way with dynamite!" 

What a funny image! "I would have thought she had had her fill of gun powder," Erik mused. 

Nadir gave him a hard look. "Poor taste, Erik." 

"Your pardon, _agha._ " 

"That was not the end of it," Nadir continued, "she was ready to take the path that would have led to the torture chamber." 

"But you were able to dissuade her?" Erik could not help his gaze from wandering to the general direction of his mirrored room. 

Nadir sighed. "In part, yes." He abruptly became unsettled and Erik was forced to fix him with a hard look. "She wants to see you, Erik." 

The statement hung in the air. 

"What do you say?" 

"She knows—I swear by God and all his prophets, _I do not know how_ —she knows that you live. She wishes to speak with you." 

The parlor became a maze of ironwork trees. The piano played _Don Juan_ of its own initiative. The bronze cricket chirped and the scorpion ran over and stung him. The lake flooded the basement, but still the gunpowder exploded. And through it all, Nora whispered _I charge you to do better next time._

"Erik!" 

Erik shook his head free of the terrible vision to find Nadir standing very close to him. The Daroga did not touch him, of course, but his face was worried. "I beg your pardon, Daroga. Whatever do you mean?" 

"She came to me some days ago, told me that she knew I was playing her false and that you lived. And then she said, _if you would be so good as to play host, I would like to see Erik again._ " 

"No," Erik replied. "It can't possibly be a good idea. I can't imagine what Christine and Erik could speak of." 

"Can't you?" Nadir asked. He shook his head. "I was of your opinion, but there is a caveat to refusal. If you do not come up to see her, she will come down to see you. Is _that_ what you want?" 

Erik's voice was dull as ash. "When is this supposed to take place?" 

"Friday noon, if it can be managed," Nadir said. 

"I will send you word," Erik murmured and arose. "Goodbye, Daroga." 

________________________________________ 

Ah, Paris. The city of broken sleep. It was late Wednesday night—early Thursday morning, Nora supposed—when Perrine came to wake her. 

"Monsieur Erik says he needs to speak to you," her maid whispered. 

" _Really?_ " Nora groaned and rubbed her eyes. "All right, then…" she had Perrine pull out her heavy dressing gown, which was nearly appropriate to be seen in. 

Erik had taken up his usual place in the parlor, stiff and uncomfortable. The fire was dying and there were only two small lamps on, but Nora could not bring herself to light another. More light would inevitably leave her irreparably awake. 

"There you are, Erik," Nora said, "I was wondering when you would show back up in my pre-dawn routine." 

He stood formally. "I apologize." He was wearing that black mask again, and seemed to attract shadows to him. All bad signs, to Nora's mind. 

"No matter." She waved his concerns away and took a seat. "What can I do for you, Erik dear?" 

He continued to stand awkwardly. "I… have a favor to ask of you." After a moment, he added, "I need your help." He said that last phrase in the same way most people said _they need to pull the tooth._

"Of course," Nora said, "of course, I'm not given to doing anything illegal or licentious, though there is a first time for everything." 

Her vague joke fell on deaf ears. He took a seat close to her, uneasy still. "It is Christine." 

"Ah." Nora did not know what else to say. She preferred not to think about Christine. 

"Despite my best efforts—your generous provision of shelter—she has discovered that I live." 

All traces of sleepiness vanished from Nora's mind. "What shall we do? Do you need to leave Paris? I can arrange—" 

"Nothing, nothing like that," Erik held up a hand to stop her. "She… wants to see me." 

"Could it be a trap?" Nora asked at once. 

"Oh, Nora!" Erik had the audacity to laugh at her. "Your paranoia would serve you well in the court of the Persian Shah! No, no. I do not think this is a trap." 

Nora tried to calm herself. "What do you need me to do?" 

"I wish you to… come with me," Erik murmured. He looked up at her then, caught her in his golden eyes. "Please do come with me." 

All Nora could ask was, "when?" 

"Tomorrow. I'll come by eleven-thirty to collect you, if you will come." 

She searched the impassive lines of his mask. How readily she could imagine his real face now—ugly and heartbreaking, framing his imploring eyes. She wanted to be disgusted by his face, as she knew most people must be. But all she could see was Erik— masked or unmasked, Erik still—and she did not know if she could refuse Erik anything. "Of course I'll come."


	25. A Personal Devil

Her hands were shaking. 

Christine de Chagny's face was composed, her posture firm, but she nearly dropped the teacup Nadir handed her. She offered a rueful smile and Nadir tried to look encouraging. 

He had attempted to discourage her from this path, with far more vehemence than his protests over Erik's burial. She held fast, insisting that she required a _proper ending_ to the entire affair. 

Nadir could not help but wonder what _Erik_ would want. To feign death for nearly two years—to appear and then disappear—to _invite_ Nadir into his home and then agree to this meeting— 

It could be said that Erik was predictable in his unpredictability. He perhaps never fit into the mold of ordinary mankind, but Nadir had seldom seen him deviate so wholly from his own norms of conduct. But recently— besides his vile sense of humor— Nadir could have nearly imagined him to be a sane man. 

Time marched on, and Nadir looked away as the Countess started to mumble prayers. 

"I can send him away," Nadir said as they drew closer to noon. 

She shook her head. "No. I cannot come so far, only to run away at the last." 

The clock chimed noon, and some minutes later, there was a knock on Nadir's door. Did Death knock as well, he wondered? 

Nadir arose himself to greet Erik, giving the Countess one last smile. She returned it weakly. 

Darius stood ready to open the door but Nadir waved him away. He stayed still for moment, his hand resting on the door lock, eyes closed. He could not believe he was really party to such an absurd, obscene situation. 

" _I can see your shadow, Daroga!_ " Erik's voice brought Nadir back to the present. " _And it is rather cold out here!_ " 

Nadir could not decide if that last spark of good humor was a good or ill omen; historically, it could have been either. He opened the door. 

Erik was not _so_ much taller than Nadir, and was much slighter in build, but he seemed to positively loom in the doorway. His black overcoat was snow-flecked and his white mask was impassive. He wore a blue and green plaid scarf, which was jarring to Nadir's eye. To his knowledge, neither ghosts nor lovers of trapdoors caught chills! 

Jarring was not quite the word Nadir would have used when he caught sight of the woman who had been standing a step behind Erik. Astounding, perhaps? An impossibility? Utterly bizarre, at the very least. She was middle-aged but still rather pretty, dressed in an expensive blue and black walking suit and a pertly cocked hat. She looked up at Nadir with eyes as green as his own. 

Nadir turned back to Erik, "uh, may I ask?..." 

"Hm?" Erik turned and seemed to notice the woman for the first time. "Oh, yes of course. Nora, the Daroga; Nadir, Nora Farley." 

The woman nodded politely, but Nadir could only stare at her. In Persian, he asked, "Erik, who is she?" 

"I already told you," Erik replied tartly, "she's Nora." 

Nora! Nadir could not help that his ear perceived this name as _Noora_ , which was a great irony. What was _Erik_ doing in the company of a woman whose name would have meant _light_ in Persian? 

"May we come in?" Erik asked. Nadir recognized his posture—taunt as a bowstring, ready to either launch arrows or snap. 

Nadir nodded, "wait for me at the end of the hall." 

Erik nodded and turned. Nadir took the opportunity to detain his lady companion for a moment. He dropped his voice low, though he knew for a fact that Erik could still hear him. "Madame—who are you?" 

"For lack of a better term, I am Erik's second," she replied, voice dead even. 

"Erik's second?" 

"Yes. You know, of course, the companion of a duelist who is present to make sure good form is observed and to witness the outcome." She seemed perfectly serious. 

"And tell me, will you fight in his stead if the need arises?" Nadir asked. He did not like her tone, and could not fathom how she had ended up in such a role. 

She smiled at him, a bizarrely bland expression. "Certainly not! That hasn't been de rigueur for over a century." 

They spent some time regarding one another in silence and Nadir finally stood aside to let her pass. "We shall talk again, Madame." 

"I look forward to it, Monsieur," she replied. "Into the fire now?" 

"You have no idea," Nadir replied and made to follow. He almost stopped cold when he saw Nora walk directly up to Erik and take his arm. 

Whatever his expectations for this meeting _had been_ , he was now entirely unsure of what the outcome might be. 

________________________________________ 

When they came to the entry of the parlor, Nora released Erik's arm. He looked back at her with something akin to panic. She smiled, though it was far from heartfelt. This whole idea seemed absurd to her. Why would Christine de Chagny want to see Erik again, if the story he told her was true? And why did Erik agree, when the idea filled him with such obvious dread? He had arrived at her home, not at eleven-thirty, but at a quarter to nine. He had spent the subsequent hours pacing around Nora's parlor, fending off attempts at conversation or consolation. 

When it finally came time to depart for the Rue de Rivoli, he had practically refused to go. Nora had been inclined to humor him, have him stay for tea and forget the whole issue. But there was something about Erik that suggested that the situation would not be settled with a missed appointment. She had called for a carriage and practically marched Erik to the address he had provided. 

Now that critical moment had arrived, she wondered if she _should_ have let Erik stay hidden away at her house. 

The man Erik referred to as the Daroga came to stand next to Nora. They exchanged nods and he opened the door for Erik. He stepped through. 

Nora held her breath as she and the Daroga entered, waiting for some tragic, unknown event to occur. 

Erik and Christine de Chagny stood at the two extremes of the room, both silent and serious. 

Nora resisted the urge to cut through the tension with some silly hostessing phrase— _oh, goodness, what terrible weather! Why doesn't everyone gather around for a nice cup of tea?_ She doubted that the interruption would be appreciated. 

Christine broke the silence first. "Erik." 

" _Christine._ " Oh, this was a different voice than Nora had ever heard from Erik. It was soft and hypnotizing, and utterly… _heavenly_. No wonder— _no_ wonder—the girl had actually believed him to be an angel. 

Christine broke eye contact and surreptitiously dabbed at her eyes. "I, ah—" 

"You've been neglecting your vocal exercises," Erik said. 

"I—" she stopped and collected herself, "yes. Yes, I have. You… sound the same." She kept her eyes curiously adverted from his mask, Nora noticed. 

Erik's breathing was becoming ever so slightly labored. "Why—why am I here?" 

She looked up at last, her eyes impossibly large. "I just needed to know." 

"Know what?" Erik's voice was sharp now, sending chills down Nora's spine. "Did you want to see that Erik still suffered? That I remain unchanged while you— you—" he stopped himself harshly. "Where is your husband, Madame? His presence would have made this a most complete reunion!" 

Christine paled. "He is away." 

"Ah," Erik replied, "of course." 

The silence became distinctly unpleasant. Erik turned his back to Christine for an instant, pressing at his masked temple. Apparently, this finally allowed the Countess to see Nadir and Nora. She looked surprised. 

"You're the woman from the opera," she said. "You know Erik?" 

Erik snapped back to attention when Christine addressed Nora. He glanced between the two of them, but remained quiet. 

Oh, Erik did have a knack for putting Nora in odd situations. "Yes, of course. How do you do, Countess?" 

"I would have never thought…" Christine began. 

"What?" Erik spoke up. "That there might be someone who cares to spend her time with Erik? Did you imagine me living out the rest of my days all alone?" 

"I imagined you dead!" Christine exclaimed. "And to find you alive—" 

"It is distasteful to you?" Erik pressed. "Believe me, it was distasteful to me as well." He looked around for a moment, as if searching for an outlet for the anger Nora could feel radiating off of him. "Let us have done with this, Christine. What good is there in reliving a painful moment in our past?" 

"I thought perhaps it would help take away the sting," Christine said. 

Good God, Nora realized, it was a role. The Countess was as much an actress as a singer. No doubt there was something genuine in this entire scenario, but how she was acting now—her tone, her gestures, her very words—it was some strange play for her. Perhaps the point of the play was exactly as she had just stated: to take away the sting of past pain. She had been younger then, weaker then, manipulated by Erik or who knew who else. It worked out well for her, in the end, but the entire affair had no doubt been taxing. 

Was this her attempt to give an encore, this time better equipped for a very demanding role? 

The very idea boggled Nora's mind. Perhaps she was wrong. At the very least, Erik appeared to take the Countess's words at face value. 

He bowed slightly. "I thank you, Countess, for bringing one perfect song into this miserable life. How foolish I was to have expected more." 

"No, Erik," Christine said, "thank _you_. You gave me a voice—and it is worth more than all of my jewels." 

Erik snorted. " _Ah, I laugh to see myself so beautiful in this mirror._ " 

Christine smiled. "Exactly. Do we part on good terms?" 

Erik turned around again, his hand still at his head. He locked eyes with Nora. His were wild with a dozen unidentifiable emotions—the worst of which was hope. It ripped Nora's heart to shreds, but she gave him her bravest look. He nodded in return and took a step towards Christine. 

It all changed at that moment, when the Countess took an instinctive step back and away from Erik. He froze, a hand still reaching out to her. It was slow in falling. When he spoke, his voice was ice cold. 

"I release you from everything that binds you to me," he said, "in both life and death. I wish you happiness—and I take my leave." 

He turned and swept out of the room, practically pushing the Daroga down in his rush to exit. 

Nora stood still for a moment, as tears started tracking down Christine's cheeks. The Daroga looked torn. Nora caught his eye. "I'll take care of him." 

His face was painted with amazement, and he mumbled. "I'm sure you shall." 

Brave words, Nora thought as she hurried after Erik, for she did not even know where to start. 

________________________________________ 

Erik had lived in a fog ever since Nadir had informed him of this meeting with Christine. A meeting! What a pretty little turn of phrase! A meeting—as if they were mild acquaintances meeting on the street, or good friends meeting for coffee, or lovers meeting for a tryst. A meeting with Christine! No, no meaningless little meeting _that_. It was the same sort of meeting one had with one's executioner. 

How long had they been in Nadir's stuffy parlor? A minute? An hour? Eternity? 

All Erik knew was that he was out of that particular hell now, walking as fast as he could towards some unknown destination. 

Perhaps the Seine. People walked off the bridges and into the Seine every day, did they not? 

" _Erik!_ " 

Oh, there were the devils calling to him, just like that scene in _Don Giovanni_ when the dissolute seducer touched the Commendatore's hand and saw his damning fate come alive around him. 

" _Erik!_ " 

He turned around to face his pursuer. Oh, yes, his own personal devil. The one that tormented him so kindly, reminding Erik of every pleasure heaven offered that was denied him. She was positively running to catch him. It was his time to face judgment, wasn't it? She would take his hand, and down they would go, merrily down into the fires of Hell! It did not sound so bad, really. But surely she would be snatched away from him once she delivered him to the Devil, because Hell _with her_ would be a tolerable torment. 

She finally caught up with him, releasing her skirts. She hand been holding them higher than lady ought to, so as not to impede her speed. Her hat had fallen off some time ago, and her hair curled out of its arrangement. 

"God, Erik, I am much too old for this," she said, her voice strained with the exertion. "Why must you be so _tall?_ " 

Hearing her voice slowly brought Erik back to the reality of the present. "Oh, Nora, I am sorry." 

She waved his apology away. "No matter—but let's hire a cab for the trip home." 

_Home._ How casually she used the word! _Home._ What did the English say? _Home is where the heart is?_ Was her heart really in some old building on the Rue de la Harpe? He did not ask, merely signaled at one of the passing carriages. 

Once settled, she took his hand—his cold, dead hand. "Are you all right, Erik?" 

All right? Was he _all right?_ Erik could not reply to that absurd question. He merely laughed; loud laughter that racked his body and pained his lungs. She held fast to his hand, the madwoman! 

He had calmed down mostly by the time the driver pulled up her building. Erik had tried to leave her there and go _elsewhere_ , but she had firmly led him up to her own parlor. 

He vaguely heard her dismiss her servants. So much the better. They were decent people. Why would they defile themselves by staying in his company? He mentioned this to Nora, and advised that she perhaps leave as well. 

"Erik," she said seriously, "stop this nonsense. _'Defiled by your company.'_ My dear man, that isn't just hyperbolic; it is insinuates a heinous falsehood. Slander, my dear, slander." 

"How would you know?" Erik spat. How did she not see the man she was dealing with? _Was_ she blind? "Christine called me a monster once, and she does not lie." 

"She was a _girl_ ," Nora countered, "stop assessing yourself on the whims of a _girl!_ " 

"What shall I assess myself on, then? The thoughts of a woman?" Erik turned to her, his voice bitterly mocking. "My mother was a good woman, devout and beautiful—rather like you in that regard. Even she called me devil-cursed and could not bear to look at me." 

"None of that," she whispered, "your merit so far exceeds what other people are even capable of seeing in you." She tried to hold his hand again, but Erik pushed her away. 

There so much goodness in her, he thought. Most all of the goodness he had encountered in the world, really, all wrapped up in her person. Perhaps confession really was good for the soul… 

How could he possibly let her stay near him, knowing that he would only ruin her? Bit by bit, he would. He would not mean to, but he would slowly erode her goodness until they were both damned. 

He tried to tell her so, but she simply shook her head vehemently. 

"We may part ways for many reasons, Erik; we will _not_ part ways based on this." 

He got up to simply leave but she blocked his path. His hand tightened around his concealed lasso—if he killed her here, that would save them both, wouldn't it? But no—no, that was one sin he could not carry. He could not have _her_ blood on _his_ hands. 

"Let me pass," he murmured, willing her with his voice to comply. She almost did, but then continued to shake her head. 

She was saying such strange things, as she always did. _Just take a nap, Erik; it will all look better tomorrow, Erik; stop this, Erik; don't say such a thing, Erik; Erik, please…_

Erik, please! As if he was a simple gentleman who would give in to the request of a lady. 

Oh, how he wanted to! 

He could not, though, as long as he did not want her blood on his hands, he _could not._ How to make her see? How to make her realize that he spoke the truth, that he was a monster, wholly unworthy of her allegiance or friendship? 

The answer was so simple. 

The mask. 

Could he possibly? Could he simply slip it off, confront her with evidence of the truth? Could he expose himself, even to save her? But if she _saw_ him, surely she would _believe_ him. 

His hand moved to his face almost of its own initiative. He soon felt the bite of the cold air on his bare skin. 

She paled, and he waited for the terror to overtake her, the screams and the following sickness. He waited for her to run, even as Christine had run. 

She stepped towards him. "Erik," she whispered his name as a plea. 

He stood, struck dumb for untold eons. He found his voice at last and commanded her, " _Look at me!_ " 

"I _am_ looking at you," she said serenely. She really did appear to be looking at Erik, her gaze even and sweeping over his features. She was a little pale, a little drawn, but her eyes were dry. She was almost statue like in composure—no, not statue-like. Not cold marble with an unbeating heart and unseeing eyes—living and live, and quite plainly looking at Erik. 

Everything melted away at that point—the day at least, if not his entire life. 

"Do you not _see_ me?" Erik whispered. 

She nodded and had the nerve to smile at him. It was the faintest, most fleeting smile, but a smile nonetheless. "I see you, Erik." 

Who was this creature who had strolled into his life by happenstance? Surely, she was not mere mortal woman, not with those unfearing eyes! Erik came closer to her and she did not shirk away. 

_Here now is Sunday bleeding over into the rest of my life. How lovely!_

Bold Nora, brave Nora! He tried once more to frighten her away—with his kiss. How strange, that she did not pull away, even from _that_.


	26. New Ventures

If the Blessed Virgin herself had appeared to Nora on Friday morning and said, _by two o'clock this afternoon, you will have kissed your Erik—and stop neglecting your rosary!_ Nora would have not only laughed, she would have converted. 

Kiss Erik? _Her_ Erik? 

What a ridiculous idea. 

Yet, somehow, the idea did not seem so _wholly_ preposterous as it was happening. Unexpected, certainly. But preposterous? Absurd? No, at this point it seemed more _inevitable_ than anything else. 

Inevitable, but still _awkward_. 

It was not difficult to ascertain that Erik was not an experienced kisser. He held his hands rigidly at his sides and as soon has Nora moved to pull him in closer, he abruptly backed away. He blushed; his cheeks turned a mottled red. 

"Forgive me," he mumbled, putting his mask back on. His odd, suicidal bent seemed to have disappeared, replaced with abashment. "Forgive me—" 

Nora stared at him for a moment, as the (not entirely unpleasant) shock of the kiss wore away. _Forgive him?_ For what? Dragging her along to witness a very uncomfortable tête-à-tête with the former object of his affections? Running away from her immediately following? Haranguing at her for God knew how long about how his vileness would contaminate and kill her? 

_Unmasking_ himself? _Kissing_ her? 

Perhaps that did deserve an apology. At the very least, he had taken liberties. And why had he done it? He did not know that she had spent the last several weeks acclimating herself to the idea of his face—he expected to, _intended_ to scare her. 

Perhaps she deserved to be angry, but somehow his kiss did not seem to warrant such a reaction. In fact, it rather wiped away her desire to be angry at him at all. It managed to fill her head with a curious assortment of thoughts, such as _poor Erik, he really does worry too much and oh, yes, now I remember what is feels like to have someone come and sweep you away…_

He continued to apologize, trying to walk past Nora and out the door. She blocked his way without really knowing why. Wouldn't it be best to simply walk out? Perhaps, but the thought was unbearable. 

She searched out his shaded eyes. He averted his gaze immediately. "No," she said. 

He clutched melodramatically at his chest in a way that Nora would have found comical, had he not been serious and she had not been so overwhelmed. "Oh, Nora, _please_. Please, do not allow one act—base and degrading though you must have found it—" 

She found that his words stung in a way that she would not have expected. It had been some years since her last romance—to have a word like _degrading_ thrown around was disagreeable, to say the least. "Erik," Nora rested her hands on his chest, trying by force of will to draw out and cast away some of the miserable tension that racked him. His heart beat was erratic. "Erik, _what_ are you apologizing for?" 

He tilted his head in that way he always did when he thought she was being inane. "I should have never dared…" 

"Why not?" Nora asked, "Why shouldn't you have dared?" 

When Erik turned away from her, his posture sagging as if he had just taken over the duty of Atlas, Nora realized that his answer was important to her. What a terrible place to be, and at her age! Had she not had enough of this in her life? Was she not yet finished with letting other people rule her happiness? 

"How can you pretend not to be… upset?" He asked. 

Nora managed to have Erik to sit down. She sat next to him, closer than propriety would have allowed. "I _am_ upset," she said. 

His face was downcast and he sighed deeply. "How could you not be?" 

"Do not mistake me," Nora took his hand. Such hands, capable of bringing forth such music! "I am upset because you seemed—" _about ready to throw yourself off of a bridge, snap my neck, forever foreswear the use of 'I' in favor of 'Erik_ —' "so terribly distressed." 

"Ah," he said, "pity. Pity and a strong stomach. I commend you on that, Mademoiselle." 

"Don't you dare," Nora said. She cut off a cross word that would have undoubtedly have ended in a tirade. _That_ was behavior she flatly refused to indulge in. But how could she possibly resolve this situation? How could she possibly answer all of her questions, negate all of his anxieties? 

_You are being ridiculous,_ Nora's mind echoed, _reaching for the impossible, as always._ Let him go. _Keep a pretty little memory of Sunday mornings and one flustered kiss. Don't make this any more difficult than it already is._

Ah, the voice of reason. Nora ignored it. 

She set her hand on Erik's mask. It was cold, as she already knew from all of the careless, friendly kisses she had set on that sculpted cheek. Erik stared at her, eyes unspeakably sad. Nora carried on in spite of them. 

She removed the mask and Erik flinched- but he did not run away or rail at her. 

He really was wretchedly, unnaturally ugly. She felt herself grimace, and was glad that Erik had not been looking at her. She could not pretend that his face did not bother her— but in the grand scheme of things, it simply did not seem important. _Erik_ was important, his _face_ was… insignificant. 

For the longest time, she simply held his hand, looked at his face and tried not to resent the trail of tears she saw there. She did the only thing she could do—she leaned over and kissed Erik. 

When he finally managed to kiss her back, she found that it brought up more questions than it answered. ________________________________________ 

Erik could not recollect how he arrived home. Nora had walked him there, which made Erik chuckle. Wasn't that rather backwards? Wasn't the gentleman supposed to escort the lady? 

Did it matter? It did not matter. 

The only thing that mattered was that she had seen his face and _had not looked away_. Oh, he saw that she was dismayed, but not disgusted. Unsettled, but not upset. And through it all, there was that undercurrent of tenderness, the likes of which Erik could never, ever recall having been directed at him. 

Erik had a natural bent toward curiosity—was it so strange that he had wondered how far her odd affection would last? 

It had survived as far as a kiss—no, two—no, three, if one counted the lingering farewell Nora had given him. It survived an afternoon of conversation that was as elating as it was uncomfortable. It survived making plans to see one another on Saturday, and had stayed in her eyes at least until she was out of Erik's sight. 

Now, it clung to Erik, shielding him like a fine coat from the chill of the world. 

Was _that_ love? If so, how different it was from anything Erik had ever seen from Christine. Oh, Christine had burned his mask, whereas Nora had handed it back to him. Christine had pledged lifelong loyalty and fidelity, whereas Nora only promised to attend another opera in Erik's company. But the one had filled Erik with such a possessive dread, whereas the other made him wonder that there was such light in the world. How could he have ever mistaken the one for the other? 

Even his sad little home seemed the better for it. He came home and saw a memory of Nora dancing through the hallway. How could he not be happy? 

He sat down at his piano, and there she was, sitting on the far end of his bench. When had she been there? Oh, yes, that Sunday morning after _Lakmé_. She had been so nervous then, Erik recalled, but still so kind. A consummate lady, whereas Christine had been a consummate actress. 

"You are mocking me," Erik smiled at the apparition, casually running his fingers over the ivory keys. 

How had she replied to that? _Yes, I am_. Honest, as always! _But I don't mean much by it._

Oh, if only she knew! It meant everything! Her casual, careless companionship had grown steadily more important to Erik—and now? 

Despite the warnings of experience echoing in his mind, Erik found that his world was now named _Nora_ , and he adored it. 

For the first time, in ever so long a time, Erik sketched out a theme for an opera. He stayed with the project throughout the night and into Saturday morning. After all—he did not have twenty years to while away on a new venture, particularly if he was supposed to be Nora's escort to the opera that very evening. 

________________________________________ 

Nora could not remember the last time she had invested so much time in dressing. She had always been of the opinion that women were obliged to waste too much of their day in doing so as it was—why fuss and drag out the process? Morning robes and visiting dresses, afternoon frocks and walking suits, dinner toilettes and evening gowns… Every once in a while, Nora found herself envying Perrine, who dressed for the morning, the afternoon, and Sundays. 

Today, she instead lamented the limits of her travel wardrobe. She had already used three of the four evening gowns she had brought, ending in the ruination of two. The only one that remained unworn was her brown taffeta. That dress always managed to remind her that she was indeed a spinster, even with the adjustments to the sleeves and neckline Perrine had gleefully executed at Nora's request. 

There was also the question of _would Erik like it?_ stuck in the back her mind. It was a foreign situation to her. The last time she had cared what a man thought of her dress, she had the impudence of youth. She had not put much thought into how she was dressed because she had been pretty enough for it not to matter. Now, she only had the sensitive vanity of age on her side. 

It shouldn't matter, Nora told herself. She was simply going to the opera with _her friend_. This preoccupation with her appearance was just silly. Still, she did not hesitate to have Perrine pull in her corset a little tighter than usual. She even let Perrine dress her hair in a more current style, but immediately felt ridiculous and had it redone. 

The doorbell rang earlier than Nora would have anticipated. Erik had been adamant that they attended the opera 'properly,' which of course did not include paying for tickets or using the main entrance. But there would be a carriage involved, and Erik would be present to escort her both to and from the Garnier. Nora found his insistence on _right and proper_ endearing, if a bit funny. 

She sent Perrine out to deal with Erik has she finished hooking on her earrings. Well, it was not the most flattering costume, but it was serviceable enough. On that score, the woman who stared back at Nora from the mirror may not have been a great beauty, but she was serviceable enough as well. 

Perrine reappeared at the door. "Ah, Miss Farley—" 

"Yes, yes, I'm coming," Nora said, "bring out the sable cape, please." She moved past her, steps a little too quick. Was it so very wrong that she was so looking forward to the evening? 

"Your sense of punctuality is a source of unending amazement, Erik," Nora said as she entered the parlor. She stopped abruptly when she noticed that Erik's usual spot on the settee empty. 

"Somehow, I don't think you're actually speaking to me," a familiar voice came from the wingback that faced away from the entry, "given that you've always been disparaging over my timetables. Calling me 'Erik' was the second clue." 

Nora wasn't sure if she should laugh or cry. Instead, she walked across the room and gently hit the man's shoulder with her closed fan, "Well, I will say you have a remarkable sense of timing, Daniel. But I will not comment on whether it is remarkably good or remarkably ill." 

Her cousin smiled cheekily at her, as if he was half of his nearly-fifty years. "Dear girl, I've missed your vitriol." 

Nora glanced at the clock. If he kept true to his word, Erik would arrive in just over a half hour. Well, the evening promised to be _interesting_ , if nothing else.


	27. The Elixir of Love

There was something immensely satisfying about hailing a cab and directing it to Nora's home. Erik still pulled his hat down to cast a deep shadow over his face, but few carriage drivers refused a well-dressed man with ready money in his hand. 

His initial success in his endeavor should have alerted him that disappointment was nigh. Carey's unusually contented expression should have been the second alert. Alas, Erik remained blissfully unaware of trouble until he heard the laughter emanating from Nora's parlor. The sound pierced his heart. 

_She_ sounded so delightfully carefree, and _he_ —whoever _he_ was—sounded equally amused. She had been in Paris for months, and in all that time, Erik knew that her visitors were few and professional in nature. It was just the tangling of the accursed fates that brought her into contact with some pleasant man as soon as Erik set his heart on her. He stood outside of the parlor, as cold and unmoving as stone. 

He ought to wash his hands of the whole affair. Leave now—never mind Nora—never mind Christine— 

"Ahem," Carey appeared at his shoulder, "Miss Farley _is_ expecting you." 

Erik closed his eyes, envisioned snapping the servant's neck, and then discarded the idea. "Please inform Miss Farley that I am obliged to cancel tonight's engagement—" 

" _Mr. Carey, is that Erik?_ " Erik had grown attuned to Nora's slips into English, and could usually understand her. She sounded completely at ease, and said his name brightly. 

Carey glanced at Erik, "yes, Miss." 

Erik could hear the rustle of her skirts draw closer. She appeared at the doorway, dressed in a dark brown gown that matched her hair and complemented her ivory complexion. As usual, her main ornaments were elaborately carved hair combs. She smiled at him, "do come in, if we have a moment to spare." 

Erik begrudgingly walked forward, intent on facing his rival. 

The man standing in the parlor was not what Erik had at first pictured—there were no waifishly handsome viscounts to be seen. This man was older than Nora and barely taller than her, dressed in a rumpled suit. His face was unlined, but his hair entirely silver and sticking out at odd angles. A flickering smile and smudged glasses completed the odd picture. 

The man had the audacity to put out his hand to Erik, "Daniel Tremblay. Fresh from Calais!" 

Where had Erik heard that name before? Nora supplied the answer, "my cousin." 

Erik could not find words to reply with, but allowed Daniel to shake his hand. "I hear that you're taking Nora to the opera tonight—however did you manage to convince her to go with you?" 

The question hung heavily in the room, and Erik's fantasy of killing Carey was suddenly transferred to Daniel. 

Nora merely snorted, "what a way to put it, Daniel!" 

Her cousin shrugged. "What? You're practically a social recluse, Eleanor. The fact that you are going out _with someone_ is practically a miracle. Really, who have you been praying through recently? This could really be a boon to the beatification of some holy person or the other." 

"Do you know," Nora spoke in a stage whisper, linking her arm with Erik's, "that he actually _wonders_ why the High Commissioner keeps him locked up in his office instead of letting him go out on foreign assignments? Personally, I wonder how he stays in the diplomatic profession at all." 

Daniel sniffed primly, "I would have you know that I am extremely… competent at my job." 

Nora made some sort of reply that Erik did not quite hear. It was as if he was playing the role of the ghost again, eavesdropping unseen on some conversation wholly unrelated to himself. The only thing that brought any gravity of reality to the situation was the feeling of Nora's hand placed in the crook of his elbow. She continued to banter with her cousin for some time. It was a different side to her than Erik had seen. She was not soft with Daniel like she was with Erik, and he exulted in that. Rather, she was arch and wry, as she often was, but with an undercurrent of affection. 

"Well, I won't detain you from your caterwauling any longer," Daniel said. He kissed Nora's cheek and shook Erik's hand again. He maintained unnerving eye contact with Erik throughout the action. "Feel free to keep her out as long as you like. It would probably do her some good." He winked. 

Winked. 

Someone _winked_ at Erik. 

He escorted Nora to the waiting carriage, dazed. He could not recall saying a single word during the visit. The silence continued until the carriage rolled off towards the Rue Scribe. 

"So that is… Cousin Daniel," Erik said at last. 

Nora offered a wry smile. "That's Daniel, yes." 

Erik processed this thought for a long while. "He is here to overtake the question of Christian Tremblay's estate?" The accusation of _you're leaving_ was unspoken but plainly communicated. 

Nora colored a bit, a very flattering look on her. "Actually, he's asked me to stay longer and take care of most of it." 

"Ah," relief flooded through Erik's mind, erasing the darker thoughts that had plagued him for that past quarter of an hour. "Did you say that your cousin is married?" 

Nora nodded. "With four daughters." 

"Ah." He took a moment to reclaim his former joy at the prospect of this evening, gazing at his pretty Nora and anticipating the night to come. He smiled to himself, uncaring of even of the harsh jarring of the cab over the cobblestones. "So. Eleanor?" 

She groaned, and Erik laughed. 

________________________________________ 

Didier looked at the handbill for the night's performance. He was pleased that he had been able to persuade their new leading lady to shorten her stage name. "La Fonseca" fit nicely beneath _The Elixir of Love._

The production had been meticulously arranged, and Didier was slightly perturbed that he would be missing it. He preferred comedic operas, but tonight had his own melodrama to participate in. 

After the first act was underway, he meandered over to the Grand Tier. Madame Giry nodded to him with proud diffidence. 

"Monsieur Manager," she whispered. 

"Madame," he nodded formally to her. It had been his experience that if one treated the boxkeeper with respect she could be extraordinarily helpful. "Might I inquire if Box Five is occupied tonight?" 

She looked at him curiously. "Box Five is _always_ occupied, Monsieur." 

"I know, I know," Didier said, appeasing her with his agreement, "but is _he_ here _now?_ " 

"Well, yes, Monsieur," she bobbed her head, the feathers in her bonnet waving, "along with his lady friend." 

"…His lady friend?" Didier repeated. 

"A woman of breeding," Madame Giry assured him, "though not as gracious as _he_." 

Didier nodded, shuffling this information away for future reference. "Thank you, Madame…" He checked his watch. Just two hours until the opera ended. With any luck, the ghost would dally and delay with his guest—though it was just as possible that they might depart the opera early. 

Either way, there was not a moment to lose. Didier hurried to the back stage, passing by the various workers without a word. He ducked into one of the unused dressing room, looking around fugitively. He doffed his tails and put on a coarse work coat he had set aside. He had a loaded gun at the ready and a kerosene lantern. A length of candle was in his pocket, as well as matches, as a backup. He kept a switchblade at the ready as well. 

He had spent days planning this, pouring over the blue prints of the opera house and recreating the route Christine de Changy had described to him. 

With any luck, he would be soon be in the lair of the Opera Ghost. 

The main issue was the underground lake—besides the innumerable traps the Countess had so airily mentioned, of course. In order to bypass it, he would be obliged to go through a zigzagging maze of service corridors. It could easily be an hour's walk, he figured, and he could not risk taking so much time. As soon as he was unobserved, he broke into a run. 

City life had made him soft, Didier grumbled to himself. As soon as he could, he would escape out to the country. Long walks, a good horse, a few pretty rustic girls… Yes, he could definitely use a vacation. 

________________________________________ 

Erik had never like _The Elixir of Love_ , for more reasons than he could possibly number. To be fair, it was not a terrible opera. Musically, it was vaguely amusing. In terms of characterization, rather too accurate. But the ending? Heartbreaking in its improbability. 

Somehow, none of that seemed to matter this time. Erik laughed when the others in the audience laughed, allowed himself to enjoy the clever bits of the score, and delighted in the foreknowledge that Nemorino would win his proud Adina. 

Such was the joy of sharing something, _anything_ , with another person. 

The intermission came far too quickly to Erik's mind. Half the evening gone! 

He looked out at the other couples in the audience as the lights brightened. If he was forced to be fully objective, he would be obliged to say that Nora was not the most beautiful woman in attendance, nor the most stylishly attired. But what did that matter? She _was_ beautiful, and more importantly, she was _with Erik_. He knew for a certainty that none of the other smiling men out there, escorting their proud, painted creatures, were half as pleased as Erik was. 

Such a pity they could not carry on in this manner forever! 

"I suppose our walk will need to be postponed," Erik said. He tried not to sound as morose as he felt at the prospect. 

"Hm?" Nora turned to face him. "Do you have other plans tomorrow?" 

Was she mocking him? Erik would have thought so, but apparently not. "Not at all. But I thought that you would be busy with… your cousin." 

Nora rolled her eyes. "I practically grew up with him. I feel no compulsion to spend my Sunday morning with him, too." 

Her answer pleased him. "Then we will finally get to finish out tour of the Luxembourg Garden." 

"Barren trees, slushy snow, and frozen fountains," Nora smirked, "Make sure you bring a good coat, Erik." 

She could not see it, of course, but Erik smiled at her warmly. "I could give you the same admonishment, my dear." 

She smiled at him and settled into her chair for the second act. 

Erik observed her for some time, even after the curtain was raised. She noticed his stare, and glanced at him with a mild blush. She tapped his hand with her fan. "Enjoy the _opera,_ Erik," she whispered. 

"I _am,_ " he replied, utterly truthful. 

________________________________________ 

It was a _cottage._

A quaint little cottage with a porch and window boxes, situated on a _lake_. 

Didier abandoned his haste for a moment, simply to _look_ at the bizarre tableau before him. The Opera Ghost, with his exorbitant salary, lived in the most mundane structure Didier could have possibly conceived of. Only its location made it noteworthy. 

Now that the moment had come, Didier felt a bit faint. What exactly did he intend to do here? 

_Find answers_ , he repeated to himself, firmly. Now, if only he knew what _questions_ he was supposed to ask… 

The front door was unlocked and apparently not beset by booby traps. The interior of the house was just as ordinary as the exterior. A parlor, done up in the conventional style of forty years past. A bedroom, practically unused. Didier lamented that there was a locked door off the hallways—surely, he could have found answers there. He tried to force the door, but it would not move. He did not dare to attempt more drastic measures. 

The kitchen was surprisingly modern, with running water and an ice chest. A loaf of good bread was on a cutting board and several bottles of wine stood ready in a cool corner. Didier looked at these; they were all exceptional vintages. 

Well, it was nice to know that the Garnier's funds were going to good use. 

Didier returned to the parlor, at a loss. Here was his _grand scheme_ , finally at fruition, and it was worthless. Banal furniture, commonplace knickknacks—nothing of note. Nothing to hint at the identity of his phantom, or to provide insight into the man's motives. 

He checked his watch again. The intermission would have ended some minutes ago—a scant hour remained of the program. At best, he had a few more minutes to poke around an utterly average house. He sat down on the piano bench, bereft of motivation to anything else. Sheets of music surrounded the instrument, all penned in the same red ink as the notes Didier occasionally received. He leafed through the papers carefully. 

Didier fancied that he had some degree of musical sensitivity, if not talent. This natural inclination had been honed by constant attendance on the Opera. His tastes had broadened as well, and even Richard, who composed, declared that he had a fine grasp of what made for great music. 

The compositions Didier held in his hands now were wholly beyond his realm of experience. He read the notes, entranced and befuddled. What _was_ this? How did one _play_ this? 

…What would _an audience think of this?_

He picked out the simplest of the songs and played the first few chords. His fingers were clumsy on the piano keys, but at last he could conceive of what the song sounded like. Magnificent. 

A strong knock interrupted him and he nearly dropped the papers. Another knock and then the door opened. At once, a man's voice called out loudly in a foreign tongue. Didier was on his feet, fumbling for his forgotten firearm. By the time he had pulled it out of his coat pocket, he found himself face to face with the intruder. 

They simply looked at one another for a long moment. The man was older, dark skinned and light eyed, dressed in a respectable suit and an astrakhan hat. He was slack jawed with shock; Didier imagined he wore a similar expression. 

The man rushed towards him, unheeding of the poorly held gun in Didier's hand. He grasped Didier's arm. 

"Does _he_ know you are here?" the man asked, his French barely accented. 

It took a moment for Didier to decipher this question, but he ultimately managed to shake his head in the negative. 

"Then we must go at once," the man said, already pulling Didier out of the parlor, "it is the lasso for us both if _he_ finds you here, Monsieur Manager." 

Didier had the presence of mind to pick up his lantern before the odd man forced him out of the house. 

"By what passage did you come here?" the man asked, his voice still low and hurried. Didier replied and the man shook his head. "Treacherous, to say the least! You are fortunate to have made it this far." He led him out by a different passage, shorter and far more direct. Didier found himself outside, on the Rue Scribe. The man did not stop there, however, and continued to draw Didier away from the Opera Garnier. 

At last they stopped. 

"Who are you?" Didier demanded, scraping together what dignity he could. 

The man merely stared at him, searching his face before replying. "I am the Persian." 

"The Persian?" Didier repeated. "I have heard of you! You used to haunt the Garnier as much as… our mutual friend." 

"You do well not to speak of _him_ so lightly," the Persian warned, "I did not jest when I said it would be death for us both." 

"Who _is_ he?" Didier pressed, "why does he behave in the outrageous manner that he does?" 

The Persian shook his head. "We cannot speak here, not now. If I return to the house on the lake and wait for him, he might excuse the disturbances he sees, attributing them to me. If not, he may well trace them to _you_." 

"When can we speak?" Didier asked. 

The Persian reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a card. "This is my address. Come when you please—but if my man sends you away, leave without question." 

Didier found himself left alone on the street, dressed in a patched coat and carrying a lantern. He walked back to the Garnier whistling, as if he was dressed in the latest mode. 

________________________________________ 

Erik delivered Nora to her door as promised. They had chatted quietly for a few minutes, reaffirming their plan to meet in the morning. Erik tarried at the last moment, before quickly lifting his mask a few inches and kissing Nora goodnight. He disappeared and left Nora with a headache. 

Mr. Carey was still up, probably because of Daniel's arrival. It seemed a bit wrong that Daniel would be taking over the guest bedroom, so recently occupied by Erik. Nora handed off her cape and gloves to Mr. Carey and went into the parlor. Daniel sat in the wingback chair, holding a little liqueur glass. 

"You're back early," he commented. 

"It's nearly midnight," Nora replied, taking a seat across from him. 

"Well, you know—" 

"If it wasn't you," Nora growled, "I would have Mr. Carey come and shoot you for attempting to sully my good name." 

Daniel shrugged. "You know I mean well." 

"I suppose. Is that the Grand Marnier?" 

Daniel nodded and took a sip. "It tastes like someone decided to distill orange peel. Would you care for a glass?" 

Nora accepted. "I hear you can cook with it, too." 

"And I hear you gave a bottle to… Erik," Daniel said. 

"I did," Nora replied. "My staff is becoming lax and gossipy." 

Daniel waved his hand dismissively. "They adore you. They worry. I like you, but I still worry." 

"Are you here to lecture me on propriety?" Nora asked. 

"Hardly. At your worst, you've never been anything less than a lady," Daniel said. 

"So you think." 

"So I know," there was a dull edge to Daniel's voice that indicated that he might not be drinking his first glass of the liqueur. "I watched you grow up, Nora. You don't have the capacity for willful badness." 

Daniel really was a sweetheart, Nora mused. Naïve perhaps, and possessing an odd sense of humor, but as kind as men came. 

"Tell me about Erik," he said at last. 

"There isn't much to say," Nora shrugged. 

"The mask?" 

"He needs it." 

"For what? To avoid recognition?" 

"He looks…" Nora paused and searched for the proper words. There was no point in varnishing the truth for Daniel. "He looks like a reanimated corpse. A Frankenstein's monster wrought by God, rather than man." 

Daniel blinked and nodded slowly. "Carey says he's bright." 

"He's brilliant," Nora amended. 

"Do you _like_ him?" 

Nora set down her glass and fixed Daniel with an intent stare. "What _are_ you asking?" 

"I know it's silly," Daniel said, "but I want to see you _settled_ , dear girl." 

"Settled? I am settled," Nora replied, "I have a house of my own, a staff, I keep my own carriage. I do what I please, spend what I please, and your girls will each get a tidy sum from me once I've finally skipped off to Purgatory." 

"I'm not speaking of finances," Daniel said, "and you know it. I don't like to see you alone, and this Erik is this first man you've paid more than cursory attention to in years." 

"That you know of," Nora shot back. 

Daniel smiled at her, a little patronizing, "would it be so bad? If you really like the man, what prevents a union?" 

_A union?_ What a cavalier manner Daniel had, in dealing with Nora's entire future! "If marriage had been a goal in my life, I would have done so years ago. Even if none would have had me, husbands are not difficult to buy." 

"Don't be crass," Daniel said. "Timing is not always right… at times, we must wait…" "I'll thirty-eight next month," Nora said. "My time is not simply 'not right,' it is well gone." 

"Not at all!" He was trying so hard to sound reasonable, Nora thought. It was a bad form for him. "I was thirty-seven before I married, myself." 

"And how old was Anne?" Nora asked. 

"That's not the point—" 

"She was twenty-two," Nora supplied. "You've been married for ten years, and your wife is still younger than I." 

"Marriage for a woman of your age may not be conventional," Daniel conceded, "but I would hardly think it immoral." He rubbed his eyes tiredly. "I just want what is best for you." 

Nora sighed and stood. She pat Daniel's shoulder before leaving the room. "I know. I thank you." 

He grumbled indistinctly. "Are you meeting Erik after Mass tomorrow?" 

Nora was already out of the parlor. Her headache was threatening to blind her. "Yes." 

"Good for you. I don't want to see you home before supper!"


	28. In the Parlor

Nora had seldom managed to procure such a long list of sins to confess during the course of a single week. In addition to her usual errors, she had a few choice bits— jealousy for one, lust for another. She threw in 'staying up too late and therefore not wanting to attend Mass' for good measure. She had the misfortune of confessing before the youngest and most enthusiastic of Notre Dame's priests. He listened intently and assigned her a half dozen Our Father prayers, with the recommendation that she also consider her rosary. She could not recall receiving a harsher penance since confessing her unholy joy over her mother's death. 

The weather was vile when she finally exited the cathedral. Any semblance of a sunrise was obscured by rain clouds, and the streets were slick with frost. It was likely warmer than Ottawa was at the moment, but that was little comfort as the winds allowed the rain to bypass the protection of Nora's umbrella. By the time she reached the bridge, she had given up on it. 

She recognized Erik from a distance, despite his anonymous attire and atypical homburg hat. He tilted his head at her in curiosity. 

"Luxembourg Gardens was it?" Nora asked, fixing her chapel veil to better cover her ears and throat. 

"I think not," Erik replied. He unbuttoned his great Ulster coat and drew Nora close, wrapping the coat around her. He was surprisingly warm. "What happened to your umbrella?" 

"It was doing more harm than good. That's what one gets when one buys an umbrella based solely on the pretty handle," Nora admitted. "Where shall we go, then, if not the gardens?" 

"Rue de la Harpe," Erik replied primly, "you ought to be home in front of a fire." 

"A little water is not going to cause my death," Nora said. 

"It might," Erik said, trying to usher her across the bridge. "And then what would I do?" 

"Isn't there _anywhere_ you want to go?" Nora asked. 

"Is there a particular reason you do not wish to return home?" 

Nora shrugged. "I'm already out. I'm already wet. I'd rather spent my morning with you than hearing about the gastronomical habits of the French ambassador from Daniel." 

Erik paused, before slowly turning around and walking back onto the Île de la Cité. "Very well." They crossed over to the Right Bank quickly and Erik procured a hansom, grumbling all the while that Nora was still getting wet. He attempted to hand over his coat, which she refused. 

"What sort of gentleman would I be if I did not do everything in my power to make you comfortable?" he huffed. 

"Ask yourself this," Nora countered, "what sort of _lady_ am I?" 

"A very fine one," Erik said. The cab stopped at the corner of the Rue Scribe just as the rain transformed to hail. "Now aren't you glad to be going indoors?" 

Nora glanced at him, peeling off her scarf as soon as they were through the hidden gate to the underground. His eyes sparkled humorously. "Why, yes, Erik. Your prudence is astounding." 

"Indeed," Erik nodded. He took far too much delight in the role of 'protector,' Nora thought. 

"I've always been curious about the roof here," Nora said slyly, "is it true there is a wading pool up there?" 

"Hardly," Erik replied, "there are water tanks that the ballet rats use in the summer." 

"But the statues are quite something, are they not?" 

"They are," he replied noncommittally. 

"I'd like to see them," Nora said. 

Erik halted. "Be my guest. For my part, I am going to sit in my warm parlor with a pot of coffee." 

Nora made a show of looking around the damp, dark corridor. "On second thought…" 

"Quite." 

"You know, dear," Nora said, "you're not much fun to tease." 

Erik shrugged elegantly. "Are you sure that you are simply not very good at teasing me?" 

They arrived at Erik's little house, which looked pleasantly warm and bright. Erik helped Nora out of her soaked coat and ushered her to the parlor. After fixing the fire, he departed, presumably to make the coffee. 

Nora rubbed her hands together absently, looking around. She could not help the wave of panic that washed over her as observed the room. Her previous experiences in Erik's parlor were far from pleasant. What were they up to so far? Ah, yes, a pseudo-kidnapping and a very uncomfortable confession. Neither had inspired Nora to actually observe the room itself. For the most part it was as banal as she had recalled, but for the first time she noticed the bookshelves. A dozen languages and subjects were represented in the contained volumes. Few of the titles she could understand were familiar to her. Lacking any other distraction, she leafed through Erik's copy of the _Divine Comedy_. 

She nearly jumped when Erik silently draped something over her shoulders. 

" _Inferno, Purgatorio,_ or _Paradiso_?" he asked. 

"As far as Dante is concerned, I much prefer _La Vita Nuova_ ," she slipped the book back into its place and looked down at the shawl Erik had put on her. It was remarkably fine cashmere, vibrant red woven with a wonderful pattern of turquoise and gold. "Where on earth did you get this?" 

"It was a gift," Erik grumbled, leading Nora back to the sofa. 

"Who gave you a woman's shawl as a gift?" Nora asked. 

Erik remained silent for some time before answering. He poured Nora a cup of coffee and handed it to her. "The Shah." 

"The… Shah?" Nora had a vague memory of Erik laughing at her, claiming that her paranoia would have been at home in a Shah's court. She had not thought much of the comment at the time. 

"Naser al-Din," if Nora had thought Erik had been grumbling earlier, now he must have been _growling_. "The Shah of Persia. And it is not a woman's shawl. In the Persian court, shawl fabric is used by both genders to create their fitted clothing." 

She stared at him "The Shah of Persia gave you a cashmere shawl as a gift." 

"You have an amazing gift for restatement and reiteration," Erik said. 

"You were in Persia?" 

"I was." 

"How did you like it? You never mentioned it before." 

Erik sighed. "I cannot speak of Persia. I was at my best and my worst there. " 

Nora nodded as if she understood, though she honestly did not. "Your life has taken you interesting places." 

"As has yours," Erik nodded. "I traveled because I needed to. You traveled for the simple love of it—I envy that. For my part, I have had enough of the world to last my lifetime." 

"I don't think I will ever have had enough of the world," Nora replied. "I—" Her thoughts had turned glum, perhaps prompted by Erik's own dark air. She cut off her intended comment. With any luck, Erik would ignore it. 

He did not. "What is it?" 

"Never mind," she said. 

"You expect me to 'never mind?'" Erik asked wryly, "and here I thought you might actually _know_ me." 

"It sounds so self-indulgent," Nora complained, "I dislike wallowing in childish self-pity, which is sadly something I am prone to." 

"Just tell me," he pressed. Was that a note of panic in his voice? Nora immediately felt a surge of guilt. Erik never took any form of rejection well. But what was she supposed to do? Appease him at every turn? 

In this case, she believed it would not harm anything. "I do love travel, as you say. But I also travel because I have never found a place that really feels like home. I've found places that I like, places that I am fond of. There have been places I've lived— but _home_ , in terms of the abiding place of one's affections, has always eluded me. Doesn't it sound silly?" 

Why did she always look at Erik's mask, expecting to see some sort of expression there? "What of… Ottawa?" 

"I have a house there. I have family there and responsibilities that force me to return year after year. I suppose I can get a little sentimental over the place on occasion, but given the chance, I might just leave the house to Mr. Carey and never bother returning." 

"Don't you like Paris?" he asked. 

Did she like Paris? It seemed like a question with far too many implications to answer properly. "Do you?" 

"I came here by chance," Erik said, "I stayed by design." 

"I suppose I also came here by chance," Nora replied. She did not say that she could not imagine _staying_ , by design or caprice. "Then again, chance has been a deciding factor in all of my destinations. It's one of the reasons I prefer to travel alone. The last thing one wants is to be obliged to debate the merits and demerits of any minor change in itinerary." 

"It is not safe," Erik said suddenly. 

"Pardon?" 

"You really oughtn't travel by yourself. Who knows the sort of harm that might come to you?" He was absurdly earnest. 

"Harm can come to me half a block from my front door," Nora pointed out. 

"I suppose." That was likely the most Nora could expect in the way of an agreement. Erik had fixed himself a cup of coffee, but now sat at an impasse with the cup halfway to his masked face. 

Nora sighed and reached up to remove it. 

He flinched, a gesture made monstrous by his face. "I don't believe I'll ever grow accustomed to… this," he said, eyes wide. 

She shrugged, disguising the fact that she was not quite looking at Erik by admiring the weave of the shawl. "Well, I don't see why a man shouldn't be able to have a cup of coffee in his own home." 

"Perhaps, but I do not understand how you look at me," he murmured. After a moment, he asked, "or _do_ you?" 

Nora was surprised when she felt Erik place a finger under her chin and gently force her to look up at him. She jerked her head away, smiling to lessen the chance that Erik would perceive the motion as a personal slight. "Oh, Erik." 

"Tell me," he demanded, "tell me how you do it." 

"Does it matter?" It was uncomfortable to be scrutinized, Nora realized. Erik did so openly and harshly. She made a point of looking directly back at him. 

"Yes, it does matter." 

"Why?" 

"Because I must wonder," he said softly, "I must wonder why you _alone_ are capable of doing so." 

"Ah." Nora lowered her eyes, withdrawing the challenge she had been making with them. Did she dare tell him of the days she had grappled with the image of his face, the nightmares and phantoms that it had conjured? There had been one particularly vivid dream that had haunted her for some time, recurring even in recent nights. She had dreamt of kissing Erik—a lover's kiss, full of life and passion. He wore his mask, but in the dream it served as his own warm, living face. It was his actual hideous face that served as the mask, slowly crystallizing and obscuring the original white porcelain. She would be caught then, caught between kissing _Erik_ and making love to a corpse. 

No, she could not tell him that. Besides, she was always— _always_ —able to rid herself of the image upon awakening, separating man and face. At least, then, there was that truth to tell him. "You are more than your face." 

"Ah, so you tolerate me in spite of my face," he said in his singsong voice. 

Nora looked up at him. There was something about that mocking tone that brought out the worst in her, allowing anger and vanity and resentment to push aside her finer social polish. "My opinion of you is not _in spite of_ your face; it is wholly separate. The one does not influence the other." Perhaps that was not quite true. If anything, the affection she had for Erik and the value she placed on his friendship served to lessen the dread of his countenance. She picked up her forgotten coffee and took a sip. "I will not insult you, Erik. I am not one of those who can find beauty in the grotesque." He flinched, but she carried on. "But when I look at you, I see my friend. Nothing more, and nothing less." 

"Then you see things strangely, my dear," he whispered. 

"Can we simply not speak of it anymore?" Nora asked. It sounded more like a plea in her ears than a casual request. 

"Conditionally," Erik said. 

"And what is your condition?" she almost hoped that he would request a kiss. It would be easy enough to give, and would perhaps sweep the whole issue away with more finality than anything else she could say. 

"Tell me," he said, "how you manage to see the world differently." 

She blinked at him. His face really did not seem so dreadful, particularly when he was so serious. He might as well have been a terrifically carved gargoyle. "I don't know." 

"But you do see it differently." 

"I suppose I might." 

"You do," he insisted, "and you must tell me how it came about. Only then will this be finished." 

"I do not know," she reiterated. 

"Don't you?" His hand ghosted over her own. 

She shook her head, and he held her hand. His eyes were locked on her, leaving no quarter for escape. 

"I went to Luxor," she said at length. "I toured the Karnak ruins, went through the bazaar, explored the suburbs, and ended up in the part of town where all of the dancing girls congregated. They were robed in a riot of colors, kohl-rimmed eyes and rouged lips, hair long and dressed in a hundred braids… they were rather impudent, laughing and jesting. It didn't bother me. They made for a striking picture, something wholly foreign." She tried to use her own most engaging voice, though it was nothing like Erik's vocal hypnotism. Clearly, she had been too much in his company. "Some years later, a Miss Edwards published her travel memoir of Egypt. I read it, and discovered that we had been many of the same places, scant months apart. She wrote of the very neighborhood I had seen the dancers in, and commented on them. She said—give me a moment to say this correctly— _never before had we seen anything in female form so hideous._ From what I could tell, such was the common opinion of Western women of good breeding. I tried to remember what I had thought and felt at the time. I had thought, _how ridiculous we must look to them in our corsets and feathered hats_. I cannot tell you _how_ I came to think in that manner, but that was _when_ I realized that it was different from the norm." She toyed with her coffee cup for a moment. "Does that satisfy you?" 

"No," he said, "but we can consider… this matter closed." 

"For the moment?" Nora asked. 

He smiled and tapped her hand affably. "My clever Nora. Come now, and have a listen." He arose and offered Nora his hand. She took it tentatively and was soon set down next to Erik on the piano bench. He shuffled through the red inked papers on the music rack, setting an unnamed piece to the fore. 

"What do we have here?" Nora asked. She looked over the notes. They were not as complex as some of the pieces she had just seen Erik set aside, but there was something unexpected and unconventional about the arrangement. She had certainly never attempted to play such a piece. 

He smiled again and shushed her. "Just listen." 

It was a remarkable song, though she could not tell if it was the music itself or the manner in which Erik played it. She tried to pay attention to technical aspects, but soon found all awareness swept aside by emotion. It was a song of hope, she thought, delicate, desperate hope. Did Erik know what she thought of hope, that she truly believed it to be the most damning of all feelings? Did it matter? The song faded at the end, and Nora felt Erik brush away tears she did not realize had escaped her eyes. 

"The composers of the Baroque era held to the doctrine of the affects," Erik said clinically. "The idea was to highlight a single emotion, often through contrast. It is a practice that has long since fallen out of favor, supposedly because it is _unnatural_. But I have found that nothing mimics the very natural state of human confusion more than forcing a listener to confront a single, solitary feeling. Why look," he lowered the fall over the keys and turned to look at Nora, "you cried. An optimistic song, and you cry. And these are not tears of joy, are they?" 

Nora quirked a smile and shook her head. "You are too good at this, Erik." 

"Unnaturally so," he agreed, "another reason why I have never quite managed to fit into that world you are so anxious to explore." 

"What made you create that?" Nora almost did not want to ask the question, fearful of how he might answer. 

"It is an aria," he said, "for my new opera. I do not know who sings it, or under what circumstances. Yet." 

"Will she be disappointed?" Nora asked. 

"Pardon?" 

"All of the hopes and the dreams—she'll be disappointed, will she not?" 

He looked at her for a moment and returned a portion of the red shawl that had fallen to its proper place on Nora's shoulder. "I do not know." 

________________________________________

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Amelia Edwards quote comes from _A Thousand Miles Up the Nile_ , first published in 1877.


	29. Paradiso

Nadir considered himself to be a man of simple desires. His youth had been consumed with the typical unreachable objectives—great fame and wealth, a grand love, and the pursuit of justice in an unjust world. But now? Good food, decent reading material, and quiet afternoons were all he really required from life. 

Nadir had predicted that Sunday would be a rather good day for him. The frigid weather would surely prevent visitors from intruding on his peace. He had the latest bound volume of Jules Verne's work in one hand, and a steaming glass of Turkish coffee in the other. He ought to have known that the peace would not remain. Too many years of civilian life had obviously dulled his keen investigator's intuition. 

Erik arrived at four o'clock in the evening. 

"I did not think I would see you again," Nadir said. Privately, he admitted that the prospect had disturbed him. He had reconciled himself to Erik's death once, but the idea that the man was alive and unseen was unpleasant. 

"How could I stay away?" Erik had practically fallen onto the couch. The man really did have a flair for the dramatic—grand, sweeping gestures that meant next to nothing. "After all, someone broke into my house, and you are the only police officer I could think to alert." 

For a moment, Nadir thought that Erik might have been aware of his _other_ intruder, but realized that was unlikely. "You left your front door unlocked. Hardly a 'break-in.'" 

"Aha!" Erik exclaimed, pointing a long finger at Nadir, "the culprit! I should have known…" 

Nadir huffed. "Really, you are much too old for these sorts of displays, Erik." 

"If I am old, then you are one foot in the grave, Daroga." 

Nadir thought back to the picture of Erik retreating away from the Rue de Ravoli, running from Christine and God knew what else. How long ago had that been? Three days? Never had Nadir seen Erik recover from such a blow in such a short period of time. "I would have expected you to be buried in some morbid composition by now," he said. 

"Pardon? Oh, yes, I suppose I do tend to retreat into music at times," Erik said airily. 

Nadir's tea cup said, " _But you must admit, it is very fine music!_ " 

The maiden painted on the wall hanging replied, " _and recently, Erik's work hasn't been morbid at all!_ " 

" _What can that possibly mean?_ " the book in Nadir's hand joined in the conversation, " _when even the Living Corpse does not dwell upon the subject of death?_ " 

"Erik!" Nadir set aside the book with a bit more force than was necessary. "Stop it!" 

Erik's voice returned to its proper tone and location—namely, his own mouth. "Really, you have no sense of humor." 

"Why? Because I do not laugh at mirrored rooms? Because I do not care for my cutlery to act possessed?" 

" _I'm a cup, not cutlery,_ " the coffee glass whispered. 

"Erik," Nadir warned. 

"A thousand apologies," Erik inclined his head slightly. 

Nadir had almost managed to relax, even in Erik's presence, when someone else rang the bell. For a moment, the briefest moment, he gave it no thought. Then he remembered handing his card to Didier Moncharmin, and the thought spurred him out of his chair. "Darius! If it is the errand boy, tell him we need nothing today. No one should be out in this ungodly weather." 

Darius nodded in understanding and Nadir sat back down, ignoring Erik's curious eyes. 

"The… errand boy?" he asked. 

"He is useful, but too eager," Nadir offered. 

Erik paused. "There is no errand boy." 

Nadir glanced at Erik and then picked up his glass again. "Believe what you will." 

"It was Christine," Erik declared morosely. 

"Why would you say that?" Nadir asked. All in all, it was not the worst thing Erik could think—if he suspected that Moncharmin had connected him with Nadir… 

"Who else would you be in such a hurry to send away from me?" His eyes narrowed momentarily, but then cleared. "She is quite something, isn't she?" 

" _Erik_." 

Erik waved his hand. "No, don't mistake me, Daroga. Christine… Christine was a beautiful fantasy, but I have found that I can live without her." 

"You put on quite a convincing performance that indicated the opposite of that," Nadir pointed out. "And the last I saw of you—" 

"Details," Erik said. "Tell me—what do you think of _Nora?_ " 

Nora—ah, yes, Nora. The name conjured such an uncanny image in Nadir's mind that he scarcely knew how to categorize it. "I hardly know." 

"Now, she is magnificent," Erik said. 

Nadir turned to face Erik, pinching the bridge of his nose and closing his eyes against the dawn of a headache. "Erik, I do not know what you are saying, what you are intending—but it can hardly end well." 

"How would you know?" Erik asked, indignant. "You do not know her." 

"Perhaps not. But I know _you_. What good can good can come of your… association with this woman?" 

"We are friends," Erik said suddenly. "Can you believe that? She is the dearest friend I have ever known." 

Nadir was well informed on the quality of Erik's friendship and immediately pitied Nora, despite her obvious pride. "How did—" 

"Our paths crossed," Erik said, "just an instant, soon to be forgotten. But then they crossed again, and again. Seldom in my life have I managed to procure for myself so strong a tie to the world." 

"But does she care to be tied to you?" Nadir said bluntly. "I seem to recall something about Christine being your _living wife_. You were _quite convinced_ on that score." 

Erik seemed to wince, and he turned his face heavenward. "Christine's voice summoned angels down to earth; Nora's touch lifts me up to paradise." 

Nadir looked at him, startled. "What are you saying? You can't possibly mean—" 

Erik snorted. "My Nora is as virtuous as her beloved saints. But, Nadir—" Nadir startled again at this rare use of his personal name—" _she has seen under the mask._ She has seen _me_ , and still does not refuse me. She is so kind, my Nora." 

If it was true, Nadir could only assume that she was mad, as well as kind. "Do not make the same mistake twice, Erik." 

"How could I? I could not!" Erik launched himself off his seat and began pacing. "Christine—Christine—had every feeling for me proper for a student to have for her mentor. Nora—Nora _loves me._ " 

Nadir strove to keep his voice calm and even. "She has said so?" 

"Her eyes say so every time I look into them." 

"Do not trust a woman's eyes," Nadir warned. "You have a talent for seeing the invisible, Erik. But at times, the invisible is nonexistent." 

Erik lifted the window covering for a moment, revealing grey skies and heavy rains. "I do not think you wish to see Erik happy." 

"On the contrary," Nadir actually arose and came to stand next to Erik. "I do not wish to see you unhappy. I have seen what love has done to you before." _And it is terrifying._

"The only thing that can make me unhappy is losing her," Erik said, "I cannot lose her." 

That was exactly what Nadir was most afraid to hear. 

________________________________________ 

Didier really was not sure if patience was one of his virtues. He did not consider himself to be an _impatient_ man, per se, but he had been profoundly annoyed to be sent away from 'Nadir Kahn's' door. It was this annoyance that had prompted him to brave the beastly weather once again on Sunday, this time after nightfall. He knocked loudly on the door, despite the hour. 

This time, he was admitted by the Persian's unreadable manservant and led to the sitting room. It was an odd juxtaposition to Didier's eye; the workaday and the exotic shared space in a strange way. An average sofa was adorned by a colorfully woven coverlet, ordinary wallpaper was covered by eastern tapestry—even Didier's host wore the combination of kaftan over a wingtip collar and eye glasses that would have been at home on a Parisian banker. 

"Monsieur Moncharmin," the man greeted, holding out his hand. 

Didier accepted and shook it, "Monsieur… Kahn?" 

The Persian inclined his head slightly, "if you please. Please sit and warm yourself—my man will bring refreshment." 

"No," Didier replied, "thank you. I cannot imagine that I will be here long." 

"All the same. You braved a cold night and will do so again soon." 

Didier soon found himself with a cup of vilely strong tea in hand. He drank it, grudgingly thankful of the warmth. " _He_ was here, was he not?" No need to say just _who_ , Didier supposed. 

The Persian nodded. "Quite unexpectedly. I apologize for sending you away. Under normal circumstances—" 

"It is of little consequence," Didier said, somewhat mollified by the man's unprompted apology. "How do you know him?" 

"That is also of little consequence," the Persian replied, "what _is_ of consequence is how you came to be in Erik's house." 

Erik. _Erik?_ How queer it was to put such a name to an apparition! "I have business with him." 

The Persian smiled benignly. "I believe it is more likely that Erik has business with _you_ than you have business with _Erik_. But I meant was the actual how you came to the house, not _why_ you came." 

Didier shrugged. "How did you?" 

"I suspect that you took a route suggested by the Countess de Chagny," the Persian said, ignoring Didier's own question, "you do not seem to recall that I was her escort some weeks ago." 

His words brought up the memory to Didier's mind. How foolish to have forgotten! "Why, yes, of course. Monsieur le Daroga, she called you." Didier paused. "Then you know all of this business, do you not? From the past drama of Christine Daaé to the present." 

"More than that," his voice became sad, "I have known Erik for nearly thirty years. He is part angel, part monster—but entirely man. What do you intend to do with him, Monsieur Manager?" 

The question hit Didier unexpectedly. What did he intend to do with his Opera Ghost? Erik, his Opera Ghost! It took effort to answer truthfully. "I do not know." 

"Don't you?" 

"He extorts funds from me," Didier said, "he threatens and plays such games! But he has aided the Garnier, as well. I will not go as far as to say that his help equals his 'salary,' but I am not a man to ignore the good that stems from the bad." 

The Persian considered him for a moment. "How neatly you sum up Erik, though you do not know him. He is called monster, he is called devil, and fiend—but also _Erik_. Erik is what we call the good that stems from the bad." 

"I do not know what I shall do with him," Didier repeated, "for the moment, I shall do nothing." 

"As long as nothing includes staying above ground," the Persian said, "it may well be your best option." 

"Perhaps." 

________________________________________ 

The rain continued into Monday morning. Nora was sitting in the seldom used dining room, reading the parts of the newspaper that had not been soaked through. Daniel appeared. 

"I cannot believe I must be out in this weather," he said. 

Nora did not bother looking away from the article she was reading. "How much snow has fallen in Ontario this winter?" 

"Oh, feet and feet," Daniel replied. "I would not have wanted to be out in that, either." 

"I suppose not," Nora said, "I will say, though, that I'll spend next winter somewhere warm. Like… Mexico. I've never been to Mexico." 

"Good a time as any. Porfirio is back in office, but God knows how long it’ll last," Daniel commented. "But I think the real question is, do you think _Erik_ would like Mexico?" 

Nora set down the newspaper with a snap. "Daniel, stop it." 

Daniel continued to innocently spread marmalade on his toast. "What?" 

"You know what," Nora replied. "Please do not try to complicate my life." 

"Improvement, m'dear," he said, "improvements are at times complicated, but they are still improvements. What is the time? Already nine?" He stood, toast still in hand. "Well, off I go. Examine your conscience." 

Nora watched him go, shaking her head. She had watched Daniel interact with others, both friends and business acquaintances. He was always so polished, so imperturbable. It was only with Nora he felt free to play the impertinent schoolboy, and it could be profoundly irritating. 

"Miss Farley," Mr. Carey appeared, "Monsieur Erik to see you." 

"Just bring him in here, if he doesn't mind," Nora replied, picking up her paper again. "Otherwise, I'll go out to the parlor." 

A minute later, Erik entered. "Good morning, Nora." 

"Nine o'clock, Erik," Nora said, "I'm impressed. You just missed Daniel." 

"I know. I watched for his carriage to leave." 

Nora arched an eyebrow at this comment. How Erik-like. Nora folded the paper over to look at him. He was standing, stiff and awkward at the end of the table. "Take a seat, Erik. Coffee?" 

"No, thank you," he replied. At first, she had thought he was simply declining the drink, but then realized that he was not sitting either. 

"Perhaps we should go out to the parlor?" Nora offered. She did not like to see Erik in this sort of state. He was unpredictable at best, terrifying at worst. 

He nodded stiffly. "Perhaps so." 

She tossed aside the paper and peeled off the gloves she wore while reading it. She took Erik's arm. She could feel his pulse. It was astonishingly fast. She made him sit down when they arrived, but he was soon on his feet again. 

"I went to see the Daroga yesterday," he said. 

"Oh?" Nora did not know if that was good or bad. 

"We spoke about you—he was naturally curious about you and your presence on Friday." 

"Yes, I suppose that is reasonable." 

Erik paused, distracted. "The Daroga is something of an anomaly in my life. He has known me longer than anyone else. He has saved my life, and I his." 

"You are friends," Nora supplied. 

"After a fashion," Erik shrugged. "I told you that I was at my best and my worst in Persia, and Nadir saw both. He is a rarity in this world—a genuinely good man, with a keen sense of justice and a noble heart." He sighed. "But even the good Daroga cannot separate the man and the monster in me. He looks at me. He does not fear me, but he is still repelled." 

"Are you sure?" Nora asked. In her mind, it was easier to be afraid of Erik than to be repelled by him. 

"Oh, yes," Erik said. "You are alone in your ability to see me, Nora. You look at me, and see neither man nor monster, simply Erik." 

How grave he was! How intent and intense! Nora smiled lightly, trying to bring a note of levity to the stuffy parlor. "Not true, Erik. I wish it were true, but it isn't." 

"Oh?" His eyes picked up the firelight, glinting in the grey room. 

"I look at you," Nora said, "and before I even see Erik, I see my friend." 

There was silence, and then Erik broke out in a fit of laughter. It was a joyful laugh, nothing unstable or unseemly about it. She smiled in return. "Oh, Nora. My friend. My friend Nora. How was I to know that I would end _here_ , when at first I had only intended to walk to Notre Dame?" 

"God works in mysterious ways?" Nora offered. 

"God never bothered with me before," Erik replied. He was serious again, and came closer to Nora. He did not sit on the couch next to her, merely kneeled by her feet, taking her hands in his. Ever the thespian, Nora thought. "You look at me and see your friend. But I look at you—and I see my life. I see life as it was supposed to be, as ordinary men with ordinary faces live it." 

He was using his honey-dipped tones again, and Nora's blood ran cold even as her heart yearned to be closer to him. 

"It may be unfair," Erik continued, "it may be unjust, even. But when I look at you, I do not see my friend. I see my wife. Dear Nora, could you ever be my wife?"


	30. Purgatorio

Rapeseed was a common sight in Canada. It grew wild near Nora's home, and by late summer waist-height yellow flowers covered the land for miles. She had been in the habit of walking around the fields of flowers in her younger years, more often than not accompanied by Anthony Worthy. That has been something she had loved about their time together—they would dance at the proper if smallish balls in Ottawa, later they would meet 'by chance' in New York or Philadelphia and share the utterly cosmopolitan pursuits of theater and fine dining, but then, always, they would end up walking through the fields of wildflowers. 

It had been on such an occasion that Anthony had proposed. A simple thing, really. He had said, "Don't you think we ought to marry?" 

Nothing had been more natural to Nora than to say, "why, yes, certainly." 

They had said nothing more about it for the day, but Nora's heart had been a sort of Pandora's Box, this time filled entirely with blessings. Nothing could have been more wonderful—nothing could have been more inevitable—nothing could have brought her more joy. 

There had been proposals after that, of course. These tended to be men who coldly informed her that she was the sole object of their fiery affections and could she please confirm the figure of her annual income. These 'romances' amused and bemused her by turns; occasionally upsetting her if she had liked to play cards with the man in question. 

Nothing could have ever prepared Nora for what she felt after Erik's proposal. 

It _was_ a proposal, wasn't it? All of the right words were there— _life_ and _wife_ and _could you ever_. And his eyes! His eyes that she could only see in the half-light! Yes, this was a proposal of the most serious kind. Such hope in his eyes, such marvelous hope... 

It turned her heart to glass and laced it with such fractures that the slightest touch would cause it to shatter. 

"Oh, Erik," she breathed. Did she actually manage to say his name aloud? She must have, for he clutched her hands all the more. She could not bear to raise her voice any louder than a whisper. "No." 

She may as well have shouted the word. Erik practically collapsed into himself and nearly broke Nora's hands in his iron grip. 

"Don't—don't mistake me," Nora began. But what to say next? Everything that came to mind was either a lie or would have been insulting in its insipidity. 

"I must—" his voice was so different now, vacillating between strong anger and fragile pain, "I must—I will leave you now." 

It was Nora's turn to take a firm hold on his hand, "No, Erik, for God's sake, please do not go yet." 

"What more is there to say?" he whispered. 

"Let me explain," Nora said, drawing Erik onto the settee. How many times had she said that to Erik? Once, twice? It seemed like that was the only thing she did with Erik. Some of the explanations were light and nonsensical, but always punctuated by these frantic confessions. He sat, and he stared. 

"It is my face," he said. 

"No," Nora replied. She thoughtlessly reached up and laid her hand on his mask. She did not dare remove it. The time for that type of intimacy had long passed by. Had it ever really be appropriate, she wondered? Would she have let Erik expose her in an equal fashion? No wonder—no wonder he had thought to ask for her hand, when they had both allowed such liberties. "Never think that it is that." 

"Then what?" He asked, singsong. 

"I gave up on the prospect of marriage years ago," Nora said, "and in time I found that my freedom was far more precious to me than anything. You are done with the world, Erik, as you said yourself. I am not. I may never be." 

"You may go… wherever you please," he said. 

"And what? Wear your ring and leave you in a cellar?" Nora said. "I could not. I would stay. And I would loathe to stay." 

They sat, hand in hand, for far too long. Every breath Erik took seemed to cause him to shudder, and the shudders stabbed at Nora. Could she have not simply said _yes?_ Could she have not simply said _no_ and sent him on his way? 

Why could her dealings with Erik never be _simple?_

…though what was so difficult about walking arm-in-arm with him on Sunday? Wasn't a lifetime of easy Sundays worth the rest of the week? 

"Do you not… love me?" he asked. 

Love. Did she love Erik? What was it that she had been fighting against all this time, if not love? "I care for you more than anyone else I know," Nora said. She paused and before she could stop herself, she spoke the truth. "I _do_ love you." 

There was that spark of hope again. "Then why—" 

"Love is not enough for me," Nora said, "I am selfish, Erik. I have never been anything but selfish, and I will not change. Not even your love is enough to change me." 

"Oh, Nora," he whispered, "not quite my Nora." 

"Only my own," Nora agreed. "Can we not... continue as we are? As we were?" 

"A friend," he murmured, "a friend, at least for some weeks more." 

"I am your friend forever," Nora insisted. She could not quite stop herself from saying it, though everything told her not to. How dare she fuel him, give him false hope? Or was it her own illusions she catered to? "I may not be here forever, but you can always call on me. You are always welcomed in my home, wherever that might be." 

"Then why not into your heart?" he asked. 

She wanted to say that he already was there, and always would be. But to his mind, her heart and her hand were the same thing. To agree to one would be to agree to the other. She simply leaned over and kissed his masked cheek. She stayed close and whispered, "At the moment, Erik—" how odd that she had to make a point of not saying _my dear Erik_ , for such would be a slap in the face to him now—"I am not sure that I have one." 

They did not embrace, and Nora did not cry. 

________________________________________ 

Nora did not see Erik for the rest of the week. He had departed, cold as she had never seen him before. He pantomimed a kiss over her hand, and had nodded stiffly when Nora had mentioned seeing him on Sunday. 

She had managed to maintain composure until he left and she had barricaded herself in her room. She did not cry, though her eyes burned as if acid had been thrown in them. She merely paced the length of the room, up and down, up and down in infinite laps. 

How had she not seen this outcome? Erik meant much to her—why had she not realized that she might mean just as much to him? Oh, he talked, of course. But he was so prone to dramatics, to theatrical rhetoric—how she to know what was true or false? 

_You could have known. One look at him and you ought to have known. Were you really naïve enough to think that you were playing with your heart alone?_

Her thoughts turned repetitive, constant chastisement for a thousand small wrongs that had led up to this one unfortunate event. The only interruption came in the form of Mr. Carey and his _would you prefer to dine in your room tonight, Miss Farley?_

The entire day was gone and Nora had scarcely noticed. She declined supper and retired for the evening, refusing Perrine's help to undress or Daniel's concerned attempts to joke through the door. 

Tuesday was little better, though she had the distraction of a meeting with her bankers. Daniel had come along, and tried to draw her out in conversation in the carriage. He had failed. 

"It's something to do with your Erik," he declared. "One or both of you have been foolish, and you are now paying the price." 

"I don't want to speak of it," Nora replied, all the while cursing his perceptiveness. 

She looked forward to Sunday like it was the Day of Judgment—dread and hope taking turns for prominence in her mind. She ignored her heart completely. 

She confessed her entire relationship with Erik that morning, and the priest had the nerve to not find fault with it. 

"You perhaps did not act with due discretion," he said, "but you have not committed any particular transgression." 

Nora could not quite believe that, and so had the burden of unforgiven sins to carry upon leaving Notre Dame. 

She convinced herself that Erik would not be waiting for her. Why would he? Why would he come? And yet— 

"Good morning, Mademoiselle," he said. 

"Good morning, Monsieur," Nora replied. They stood, simply staring at one another. Nora took the first step forward, and linked arms with Erik. He was as stiff as wrought iron, though he relaxed fractionally as they began to walk. 

Their dialogue was almost formal for some time. Finally, a rhythm appeared, friendly and conversational. She smiled and he laughed softly, and for a moment Nora thought they might just get through the day. It was at that point that she asked what he had been doing recently. 

After a long pause he said, "composing." 

"The new opera?" Nora asked. 

He nodded, "yes." 

"What I heard was remarkable," Nora said. "I'm sure the rest will be equally so." 

"It will be," he said firmly, "though it would be best to reserve judgment until the entire work is complete." 

"And when will that be?" 

He looked at her, colder than she could have ever guessed, "not for some time." 

Nora broke the eye contact, nearly… intimidated? 

How did she ever believe they could somehow move back into the past, and continue on just as they had been?


	31. Inferno

Nora attempted to regain some semblance of normalcy on the following Monday. It was not as difficult as it should have been. Mr. Carey handed her a stack of letters that had been misdirected and she spent the entire day sorting through them. 

"Any good gossip?" Daniel asked that evening. 

"No," Nora replied, "all business. My lawyer is behaving more like a card sharp than anything else, the roof on my stables has collapsed, and my new housekeeper decided this was sufficient cause to discharge my head groom—who happens to be Mr. Carey’s nephew. No one is pleased." 

"Rather sounds like gossip, when you put it that way," Daniel casually picked up one of the letters. His eyes grew wide. "My God, Mr. Clacher didn't actually _lose_ this amount of your money, did he?" 

"It was a speculation," Nora grumbled, "there are no guarantees with speculations. I don't _like_ to speculate with my money, but, oh no, never mind what the little woman says…" 

"This is a year's income for you," Daniel protested. 

"A year and half," Nora said. "I'm sending Mr. Carey back to Canada to straighten it all out, within the week if I can. I should have known that my staff couldn't operate without its head." She pushed aside the papers and rubbed her eyes. "I suppose I've been away too long. Never thought I would say that." 

Daniel pulled over a chair and sat on the opposite side of Nora's desk. "Dear girl…" 

"Don't call me that," Nora said. She sounded tired, she realized, fatigued beyond reason. "Not unless you want me to call you 'dear boy.'" 

"In this case, I find that arrangement to be equitable," Daniel said seriously, "dear girl, I have never seen you so out of sorts." 

"Haven't you?" Nora tried to smile at him. 

"No, I never have," he said. "When are you seeing him again?" 

Nora sighed. "Friday." 

"Good," Daniel replied. "Going to the opera again?" 

"Yes." 

"Good," Daniel paused for a moment. "I do feel badly. From what Carey told me, everything was going swimmingly until I showed up." 

Nora scoffed. "You _hardly_ impacted my relationship with Erik." 

"I didn't think that I did. But I get the impression that my timing was quite poor. A few more weeks and who knows what might have happened." 

"Nothing would have happened," Nora said. _Everything had already happened_. "I am very fond of Erik, we have had a bit of a misunderstanding, everything will work out just fine. By the looks of it, I'll need to be back in Ottawa before spring as it is…" 

"Surely Carey can take care of everything?" 

_Surely he can,_ Nora thought, _but I think I'd rather be anywhere but Paris right now._

________________________________________ 

Erik had taken to spending hours in his rowboat, letting it drift in the stagnant waters of the underground lake. Often, he would be unmasked and in his shirtsleeves, humming vague tunes to himself. He tried bringing his violin once, but that had ended in disaster. 

She had said… no. 

Erik had battled with himself over whether he should or should not propose marriage to Nora. For one day and one night, he struggled with the question, turning it over and over in his mind. He examined it from every angle, poking and prodding and fearing the future. He came to the conclusion that the worst she could do was refuse, and had he not survived such a thing before? 

Once he had decided to move forward with the idea, he was so sure of his success. Refuse? Of course she would not refuse. His Nora—his Nora—loved him. Even she could not deny that, when he asked her directly for an answer. She loved him, even with his face. If she loved him, why would she reject him, why would she refuse him? 

Yet—she refused him. 

He could barely remember her reasons for doing so. Freedom, she said. The world still awaited her, she said. _I'm selfish_ , she said. 

But above all else, she had said _no._

Erik thought he was prepared for any answer, but somehow… that refusal shattered his heart. Only her hand in his kept him from breaking down utterly. How tragic that even then she influenced him so. 

He did not remember what happened after that. The next thing he knew, he was at home, surrounded by the sheets of _Don Juan Triumphant._

The irony was not lost on him, despite the miserable headache he was plagued by. He suspected that the mostly empty bottle of the orange liqueur as the culprit in that. 

He set about straightening out the score. Why had he brought _this_ out? He mentally traced out the notes. Even he was not immune to the power of the music. It seared and burned until he was obliged to stand and leave the entire manuscript sitting on the floor. 

That was the first day he had spent out on the lake, plucking out the phantom of _Don Juan_ on his violin until it drove him mad and he threw the instrument overboard. 

She had said _no_. She had said no, and yet she insisted on Sunday mornings! On carrying on as friends! 

Damn her. 

Damn her and her sanctified soul, down to the depths of Hell. 

He had continued in that state for an entire week. He worked on his new opera intermittently, the score growing darker by the day, fretting the rest of the time away. Then he saw her on Sunday, and he tried to curse her again. 

…but how could he, while she was still Nora? Every wave of anger had to be tempered by the simple fact that she was… still Nora, still the object of his affection and dreams. 

He could not hate her, and so resolved to love her better. 

After all-- wasn't living life about moving forward? 

________________________________________ 

_The Elixir of Love_ was still playing. 

If Erik had had a proper address, Nora might have sent a messenger and canceled their evening based on that fact alone. What a coward that would have made her! Somehow that thought did not bother her as much as it should have. Cowards tended to live longer, happier lives than heroes. 

Dressing for the evening practically sent her into hysterics, though she contained herself to a few restless twitches. She had ordered a new gown some weeks ago that had finally arrived. She put it on for a minute and looked at herself in the mirror. Oh, yes, it was a beautiful dress. It was cut conservatively but made of wine red silk, just the sort of thing Erik was constantly encouraging her to wear. That thought alone made her direct Perrine to pull out her old green dress instead. The wine color just seemed… terribly wrong to wear, like scarlet on one's wedding day. 

Erik had not arranged to escort her to or from the opera. They met on the Rue Scribe and Nora prepared for another awkward night. How many more of these sorts of meetings could she handle? To her surprise, he seemed almost _happy._

"You look lovely, my dear," he said. 

Nora knew she looked nothing of the sort. Her meals and sleeping habits for the past fortnight had been erratic at best. Even the white powder Perrine had persuaded Nora to wear could not conceal the dark circles under her eyes. But she smiled and accepted the compliment, and they marched on to Box Five. 

They arrived in the middle of the first act. Erik was attentive to her, but did not enjoy himself as he had the last time they had attended the performance. 

Nora found that she was hopelessly distracted throughout the evening. Occasionally she would catch Erik looking at her, and she would try to smile at him. Then the story was coming to a close—a tear in Adina's eye, and Nemorino launched into _Una furtiva lagrima_. 

Nora thought she had gained mastery over her tears over the past few days, but she must have been wrong. They escaped her silently, thank God. She let them run straight down her cheeks, tilting her head so that Erik could not see. 

She managed to pat away the tear tracks before the lights turns on again. Erik was sedate, but seemed fairly content. He held her close as they traveled through his maze of back passages. They reached what Nora had come to recognize as the final stretch of muddy road leading up to the street. 

"Nora?" he whispered. 

"Hm?" 

Erik slowed his pace and came to stop, forcing Nora to do the same. "I am sorry." 

Nora shook her head. "No, Erik—don't—" 

"Let me finish," he said, "you must realize that you are the best thing that has come into my life. Can you blame me for trying to hold onto you?" 

Nora blinked. She could only see Erik's silhouette and the occasional yellow flash of his eyes. "I wish you many better things than I, Erik." 

"No," he said. "If heaven opened up and an angel said, _choose salvation or Nora_ , I would choose you." 

Nora moved away from Erik ever so slightly. "Erik, stop this. Don't make me refuse you again." 

"Don't, then," he said, "have your freedom, have your world—but have me, as well." 

Nora covered her eyes for a moment, as if she could block the world. "I can't give you a divided heart." 

"I will take a fraction of your heart," Erik said, "I will take a day out of your year, or a year out of your life—whatever you can spare, I will take. And I will give you everything I have in return." 

"I can't _take_ that." Something inside of Nora broke, and she found that her voice was higher and louder than normal. "I can be your equal—But, God in heaven, do not put me on a pedestal—do not give me this sort of power over you. I cannot handle it, and I will not accept it." 

When the silence threatened to continue, Nora began to walk forward. Erik grabbed her wrist and without thinking she tore it away from him. 

"Nora, _please_ ," his voice took on a frantic edge that nearly destroyed Nora's own carefully protected self-control. 

"I'm going home," Nora said. 

"Home?" he whispered. " _Home?_ Didn't you tell me yourself that _home has always eluded you?_ How can you go to a place that does not exist?" There was something aggressive in his tone now, and Nora matched it. 

"Well, it's more home _there_ than it is _here_ ," Nora shot back. 

"It doesn't have to be," Erik said. "You must realize that I would not make you live down here! I am an architect— I will build you a house the likes of which you have never seen. I will give—" 

"Stop," Nora said, "just—stop." 

"How can I?" He said, "How can I? You're leaving—" 

"I've been leaving since the day I arrived," Nora said, "and you _knew_ that. And thought you could _change that_." 

"You're running away," he declared. The statement stood for a while, until Nora was shocked to hear her _own_ voice come from Erik. " _'I believe that there occasions when running is the absolute best thing one can do._ " 

"I consider myself something of an expert on the matter," Nora replied dryly. 

"You would be a fool to run away from this." 

"From this?" Nora asked, "ah, you mean from _you_." She paused and tried to control her pounding heart. "Erik, take me to the street." 

"Not until we are finished," he said. 

"Take me up to the street before I say something terrible," she said, "I am incapable of fighting fairly." 

"Oh, Nora. Always so modest, my Nora. Can't do the right thing, an expert in the wrong thing," Erik was laughing at her, _laughing_. "I know you are perfectly capable of… _anything_ , really. You simply choose to do the wrong thing—to take the coward's quarter." "If I do, it is my choice," Nora said, "No one forces my hand. Not even you." 

They were drawing close to the gate that would let Nora out onto the Rue Scribe. 

"Don't leave," he said again, "don't marry me, if you do not please—but don't leave _yet_." 

"What happened to accepting whatever I have to give?" 

"I— I will, but if you leave _now_ , everything will be lost." 

"Everything?" Nora asked. 

"Everything," he replied, dead serious. "Our friendship…" 

"Don't you dare give me an ultimatum," Nora warned, "there is not scorpion or grasshopper here, Erik—if there was, I swear before God and all his saints that I would turn the grasshopper!" 

"And kill thousands?" Erik asked. "No wonder we get on so well!" His words were simply venomous, lacking the nuances of persuasion and hope that he had hitherto had. 

"Open the gate, Erik," she said. He had given her a key, but in her distraction she had forgotten it on her desk. Would he dare to simply keep her here? She had grown familiar enough with the walk between the Rue Scribe and his house, but that was hardly an escape route. 

With great deliberation, he pulled out his own key and undid the lock. "Nora…" 

She could see him now, by the weak flicker of the streetlights. Her Erik— her amusing Erik, her hapless Erik, her brilliant Erik, her broken Erik—well, she could hardly think of him like that anymore, could she? The game had gone on far too long, and she had lost too many hands to count. Though why did she get the impression that he had lost more? They must have been playing with some unknown, malevolent third who was simply raking in their wagers. 

She opened up her reticule and fished out her card case. "This is my address," she said, handing him her calling card. "Write if you wish. _Come_ , if you wish. But don't try to stop me from leaving." 

When he would not take the card, she sighed and tucked it into the pocket of his coat. She left without a farewell.


	32. Counterpoint

Erik did not go out walking on Sunday. Truthfully, he was not entirely aware that Sunday had come and gone until he saw a newspaper dated _Tuesday the third_. The third? Was it really _February_ already? 

He was vigilant in keeping track of the next week and on Sunday the eighth, he left the underground house for his walk. Odd, that even the shadows seemed to reach out and attack him today. He could not recall feeling so ill at ease since… 

…since walking with Nora, that morning after _Lakmé_. Oh, how well he remembered the paranoia, the _fear_ that had plagued him that day! How sure he was that everyone saw him and wished him ill! 

But Nora had laughed at that. _They're wondering why I'm still in an evening gown,_ she had said with that hint of mischief in her smile. _It's quite scandalous._

He had thought her a fool at the first. There he was, walking in the broad daylight, with a woman no less! Who _wouldn't_ stare? 

As it turned out, walking arm-in-arm with a woman made one quite… inconspicuous. With Nora at his side, he was just one of a hundred men escorting a lady about. Nora was always so at ease, never doubting that she had the right to walk wherever she pleased. Who would dare question her choice of companion, no matter how strange? Some of that bravado must have attached itself to Erik, for he had walked around Paris for weeks with nothing more than a cursory thought given to discretion. 

It appeared that Nora had stolen that confidence away, along with his heart. How dreadfully unfair of her. 

Erik did not know what to expect, as he strolled the breadth of the Île de la Cité. Early Mass would soon end, and once again he would cross paths with Nora. What would she say? Would it be _good morning Erik_ or _Monsieur_? As along as she did not shun him utterly, he would survive. 

The cathedral bells tolled, the faithful departed… and Nora did not come. Erik stood on the bridge until dawn had turned to full day light. He calmed himself. She had attended latter Masses before—perhaps today as well. 

_I'm going home_ , she had said. But so soon? So quickly? 

Erik crossed over the bridge, quite alone, and made his way to the Rue de la Harpe. He thought of entering the building he thought of as Nora's, but could not. Instead, he waited across the street, concealed as best as he could be. 

One of her fellow tenants, a wealthy young student dressed for church, exited about ten. The landlady came out to gossip with some passer-by around noon. 

At that, at nearly three o'clock, Cousin Daniel alighted from a cab and made to enter the building. Erik was at his side in a moment. 

"Monsieur Tremblay." 

The smaller man jumped and spun around, "Christ!" the surge of panic faded from his face when he saw Erik. How funnily unfamiliar. "Oh. Ah, Erik. Monsieur Erik." 

"Erik is sufficient." 

"Right," his composure had returned fully. "Erik. How may I be of service, Erik?" 

That was… a very good question. Erik had discovered that a lifetime of making ominous, detached threats left him ill-equipped for casual conversation. After some time he asked, "how is she?" 

Daniel's face fell slightly. "Nora is Nora is Nora." 

"Pardon?" 

"Nora is as she has always been and will likely continue to always be," Daniel said, "I fancy she's already in Ottawa, or at the very least New York." 

"Then she is gone," Erik sighed. _I've been leaving since the day I arrived_. Had she ever really been here? Had she ever really been with Erik? 

"It's her prerogative," Daniel said. He sighed, and suddenly his silver hair and thick glasses did not look so wholly out of place over his youthful face. "Don't mistake me—" How often Nora had used those very words! What an amazing concept true family was, that they even spoke alike!—"I love my cousin as if she were my sister. She might as well be, really. But I often think that she would have been happier if she did not have the option of doing what she pleased." 

Erik suspected that Nora would strongly disagree with that statement, no matter the amiable air that it was made in. 

"She has that holy triad," Daniel continued, "Money, intelligence, and a sort of ambition. She would have made a fine man, I suppose, but to have all that as a woman? She does not know what is best for her." 

"Do you?" Erik asked. "I do not." He knew what he _wished_ it to be, though. 

Daniel shrugged. "No. No, I suppose I do not. All I know is that Nora was happy here for a while, and I have seldom seen her happy. I don't suppose she gave you any means of contacting her." 

Erik reached into the pocket of his vest and pulled out the card Nora had handed him. It was such a simple thing. Blinding white cardstock engraved with what was probably her family's coat of arms. A few words were penned in elegant black script. 

_Miss Nora Farley - Farley House - Ottawa_

Would a letter really reach such a simple address? Erik did not dare find out. 

Daniel looked at it for a moment. "She did, by God! You must have gotten to her, my friend. Usually when she leaves a place, she leaves it without a trace of her ever having been there." 

"She has left many traces here," Erik murmured, and pocketed the card. 

"Yes, another thing she never manages to think of—everything she leaves behind unintentionally," Daniel produced his own card, "I'm taking up rooms provided by the British Embassy—that is the address. You are welcome to contact me." 

"Thank you." What else was one supposed to say? 

Daniel turned to leave, but then stopped and looked at Erik again. "Please don't give up on her. She's already given up on herself." 

________________________________________ 

Nora always liked the return trip to Canada. The new steamers could make the Atlantic crossing in just ten days, but this was still enough time to readjust and leave behind the events of wherever Nora she had last been. 

She had honestly and strongly believed that this visit to France would be no different than any other. The embarkation process was smooth, and she was sure that the last few months would fade into the sea fog. 

There had been other little romances on her travels, after all. There had been other friendships, other opera houses, and other Sunday walks. From London to Lisbon, she had left them all with little more than a sigh and a wink. 

She tried to cut as many ties to France as possible as she could. She had persuaded Daniel to sell all that could be sold—the estate in Beaune included—and then divvy up the resultant monies. Nothing would remain to oblige her to ever return. Upon boarding the steamer, she ceased to even speak the language. Even Perrine begrudgingly returned to conversing in English. 

A wonderful giddy feeling stole over her as the ship moved ever further away from France. The seas were rough, but the future was hers for the taking. The lightness in her heart made her gregarious and friendly. The feeling lasted until their fourth day at sea. It was on that day that the rocking of the ship ceased to be comforting, she no longer found her fellow passengers amusing, and somehow she could not bring herself to leave her bed. 

She spent a good deal of her time abed decidedly not thinking of Erik. The damp, dark quality of her cabin did not remind her of the house on the lake. The distant sound of one of the marginally musically inclined quests slurring through _La Habanera_ did not bring to mind that Erik liked the song 'in spite of itself.' Why would anything remind her of him? Erik and all he stood for was back in France, and what business did Nora have with France? 

By the sixth day, Perrine asked if Nora wanted to see the ship's doctor. On the eighth, she brought him in regardless of Nora's protests. He asked inane questions and Nora gave inane answers. At the end, he deduced that the bad air of the enclosed cabin was to blame for all of Nora's ills and recommended that she spend time on deck. 

Nora tried to oblige, but the hounding concern of her fellow passengers was enough to make her think that a trip over the railing sounded delightful. 

By the time they docked in New York, she had managed to return to a tolerably good humor. She chose to think of the malaise of the last few days as a fit of seasickness, and chose not to dwell on the fact that she had never been seasick once before in her life. 

They stayed in New York for some days, waiting for the weather to improve. Nora took the opportunity to send Daniel a telegram. She did not add an inquiry about Erik and Daniel's reply did not mention him. 

On the twentieth of February, Nora once again stood in the foyer of Farley House. She had lived in there for most of her life, though it bore few similarities to the house of her childhood. As soon as her mother died, Nora had changed most everything about it. Beyond technical upgrades, she had switched the family bedrooms from the west to the east wing. Her old childhood nursery was now a guest suite; her mother's parlor and boudoir emptied and closed. The only room that remained mostly unchanged was her father's old library. After all, the bookshelves were built directly onto the walls. Why bother constructing new ones and moving some thousands of books? 

Nora had claimed that the renovations had been to bring the house into current fashion, but she knew—and she suspected that most people knew—that she simply did not want to be reminded of the past. 

You run away, even from old furniture. 

Since when had her thoughts taken on Erik's voice? It wasn't even his normal, beautiful voice. It was that mad, singsong tone that so tormented her. 

Nora went to her room to change out of her soiled travel suit, and did not think about Erik much at all.


	33. Admissions

If Nadir was obliged to generalize, he would say that the Persian culture favored speaking over listening. Rhapsodizing, orating, lecturing, chattering; all took precedence over listening. Nadir had often wondered what the point of prattling on so was, if no one really paid attention. 

At an early age, Nadir had learned that he had no particular interest in speaking himself. He much preferred to observe and absorb what others said and did. He believed it was this predilection that made him a proper investigator. He put forth the effort to acquire contacts, and then simply sat back… and listened. 

He had quietly put forth the name 'Nora Farley' and let his acquaintances, both personal and professional, chatter amongst themselves. She was cousins with a diplomat, which tremendously helped the availably of information on her. Even with that connection, she was somewhat elusive. She was wealthy, though Nadir could not pin down a figure. She was well thought of in the proper circles— at least the ones aware of her existence— but was not particularly sociable. Nothing suggested that she was the type of woman who would keep company with _Erik_. 

The next piece of news concerning Miss Farley that reached Nadir's ears was that she had been on the passenger list for the steamship Brandreth, recently departed for New York. She was weeks gone, and in all of that time, Nadir had not heard from Erik. Given their last conversation, this otherwise typical silence was concerning. Was it possible that Erik had committed some foolish act that had prompted the lady to leave the country? Not only was it possible, Nadir thought it quite likely. 

With a sigh and a prayer, Nadir set forth for the Palais Garnier. He kept a pistol level with his eyes throughout his trek through the cellars. Erik had been in a fairly pleasant, fairly forgiving mood of late—but without his Miss Farley, how might he have reverted? 

He stopped as he drew closer to the underground house. How might he have reverted, indeed! 

Music did not flow through the underground labyrinth—it lambasted and ricocheted off of the cavernous walls. Nadir stood, transfixed by the sounds for some time. This was no siren's song, though it did seduce and condemn the listener. _Forget what you know of love,_ it said, _forget what you know of hope and of pain. Let me cast off the veil from your eyes and teach you truth. You do want to know the truth, do you not?_

Nadir shook himself free from the spell of the music and pounded on the door. "Let me in, Erik!" 

When there was no response, Nadir tried the door. It was locked. 

Cursing his foolishness, he turned the pistol on the door knob and fired. The door splintered and the lock fell off, allowing Nadir to push his way into Erik's home. 

The music slowed but did not stop. 

"That was… very foolish, Daroga," Erik whispered when Nadir entered the parlor. At least it seemed like a whisper—Erik's voice was soft and low in Nadir's ear. 

"Forgive an old man his foolish fears," Nadir said. "Are you well?" 

Erik shrugged, and Nadir had to admit that he had seen Erik look _worse._ His hair was a mess, but his black mask was in place. He did not wear his coat, but the vest and shirtsleeves he wore seemed somewhat fresh. His long fingers were speckled with red—a pot of scarlet ink alleviated any concern Nadir might have had on that score. Pages and pages of music surrounded him. 

Nadir took a hesitant step forward and then another. Erik glanced at him. 

"Put down your hand, Daroga, I have no intention of killing you today." 

"Oh, good," Nadir said, "because I had little intention of dying today." 

"Ha-ha," Erik made a few cryptic notes on the paper set before him. "What do you want?" 

"I… heard." 

Erik snorted. "I sincerely doubt that." 

"Your Miss Farley has departed." 

"She has," Erik said in measured tones. 

"You seem to be taking it well." 

Erik set down his pen and leaned away from the piano a bit, though he did not bother turning to face Nadir. "Did I tell you that I have been working on a new opera?" 

"Given that you are in the habit of telling me precious little about your life—" 

"Something you are glad of, I assume?" 

"Rather," Nadir sat down awkwardly. "What is this one? _Doctor Faustus Merrily Escapes Salvation?_ " 

Erik ignored him. "It's a sort of… _La Vita Nuova._ Not specifically, of course. No Dantes or Beatrices to be found." 

"I would have thought _Inferno_ to be more to your taste," Nadir said. "And from what I heard… _that_ was the new opera, wasn't it?" 

"I had thought to compose something beautiful," Erik continued, "I have never tried to make music _beautiful_ before. Compelling, true, enticing… but beautiful? A mere byproduct, if anything. I want to compose something beautiful." 

Nadir did not comment. What he had heard _had_ been compelling and perhaps enticing—but not beautiful. Certainly not beautiful. 

"Here—let me play you something," Erik did not bother looking through the papers before starting to play. He did not play much, and Nadir doubted that it was the entire composition, but it was enough for Nadir to hear a profound difference from the previous music. It was only light and soothing in comparison to Erik's other work—but it was beautiful by any standard. "I made her cry with this." 

Nadir blinked and found that he was nearly in tears himself. "Pardon?" 

"Nora. I played her this—and she cried," Erik's hands jerked away from the piano suddenly and he ran them through his hair. "Since she left, I have not been able to compose anything like it. My light and cheerful and beautiful opera— it has matched my _Don_ for darkness." 

"Why did she leave, Erik?" Nadir knew it was a foolish question, a dangerous one. But—sometimes one needed to ask the dangerous question in order to receive the important answer. 

"Oh, why would you ask Erik such a question?" It was never a good sign when Erik referred to himself by name. 

"Concern," Nadir said, "simple, friendly concern." 

"She left because I would not lose her," Erik said. "I touched on too many of her fears with my own." 

That was not unbelievable. "I am sorry to hear—" 

"I do not wish to speak of it," Erik stood and walked over to the little secretary set up against the far wall. "Take a look at this, and tell me what you think." 

"If it is music, you know I am practically worthless." 

"Practically? I should say entirely," Erik handed Nadir a sheet of paper. "But it is not music. Read." 

_Monsieur O.G.,_ the letter began. 

_Enclosed with this letter is your stipulated salary for the month of February._

 _I hope I do not presume, sir, to intrude upon your time or try your patience, but there were some matters of business I should like brought to your attention._

 _

1\. As you may be aware, our lead tenor will soon be retiring. The company is most keen on having M. Belanger take his place; however, I believe that his understudy, M. Hahn, has real potential, particularly when one views him from a marketing perspective. Please advise. 

2\. The company has flat-out refused to perform 

_Faust _for the autumn season. Shall I press the issue or do you have a suggestion for an alternate production?

3\. My uncle, the other M. Moncharmin, whom you have dealt with before, is returning to Paris for the entire month of April. In theory, he will be resuming his managerial duties for the duration of his visit; I suggest we carry on as if he is still sunning himself on the Amalfi Coast. 

Please contact me as you see fit, yours, etc…

_

The letter was signed with a flourishing _Didier Moncharmin_. 

"The manager?" Nadir asked, as if he knew nothing about it. Though come to think of it—what _was_ Moncharmin up to? 

Erik nodded. 

"What do you intend to do?" Nadir asked. 

"Reply, of course. And see if he complies." Erik took the letter back. "It is quite something… to be asked one's opinion." 

Nadir chose not to remind Erik that in Mazanderan, his opinion had been law punishable by death. Erik would certainly remember it… differently. "I suppose I do not need to worry about you. You are busy with your opera—your opera house—I should have known you could survive a passing fancy—" 

Erik's attention shot up and locked on Nadir. His eyes burned. "A _passing fancy?_ " 

Nadir held up his hands. "I misspoke. But you seem so well—at least—come, recall the spectacle you made in my parlor over Christine! Dying of love! Nearly dead! Assuredly dead!" Nadir shook his head. "You seem so much the better this time." 

Erik voice was quiet when he spoke, and he did not sound angry. "I am not." 

"Then I do apologize," Nadir replied. 

"Do you know the feeling of a gunshot wound?" Erik asked after some moments had passed. "It is… intense. A projectile rips through skin and muscle, blood pours forth, and you are convinced— _convinced_ —that you will die. But then, the bleeding slows, the bullet is removed, the wound bound… one heals. Oh, there is that phantom pain from where bullet might have nicked bone, and that pain may last for years after the true wound is long scarred over. Christine was a bullet to me. I did believe that I would die of her love—perhaps I might have, under different circumstances. But Nora… she has left me with a cancer. It does not always hurt, though it some times does. You cannot really see it, and I may live a long time with it. But it will kill me. It will most assuredly kill me." 

They sat for a long time in silence, born out of the fact that there really was nothing to say. Nadir came to his feet slowly. He did not reach out to Erik, as a different sort of friend might have. 

"I do not know what brought Nora Farley into your world in the first place," Nadir said. "I do not know what compelled you to try to keep her there. She may be gone, but I ask you—whatever it was that first allowed her into your life, do not give up on _that_." 

"You ask much, Daroga," Erik said, "for it was nothing less than life that brought me to Nora." 

"Then live, old friend. Do not give over to the despair that nearly killed you the last time." 

"I thought perhaps I had already been judged," Erik mused, "and condemned." 

"Only Heaven has the providence to really judge," Nadir intoned, wondering all the while if he really believed so. 

"No," Erik said, "others judge as well. I believe they might judge _better_ , as well." 

________________________________________ 

"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been one week since my last confession. My sins are wrath, vanity, and… something I cannot quite name." Nora remembered her first confession, made in the very box she sat in now. She had rather delighted in compiling a list of her worst sins—it was perhaps the only time she had ever enjoyed doing so. Ah, youth. 

"Wrath?" the screen did nothing to conceal the identity of Nora's priest. Father Powell had baptized Nora, after all—and had heard that first, gleeful confession. Even now, he sounded vaguely amused. 

"For being obliged to confess my sins," Nora said. 

"And you are aware that the Sacrament of Penance is the method that method God and His Church uses to allow you to be reconciled to Him?" How many times had Father Powell said those very words to Nora? Too many to count. 

"I am, and I thank God for it daily," Nora said. Well, most days at least. 

"What of vanity?" 

"I turned thirty-eight yesterday," Nora said, "and spent some hours in front of my looking glass. I lament my lost youth and beauty." 

"'To every thing there is an appointed season,'" the priest intoned, "'and a time to every purpose under heaven.'" 

Nora snorted. "I was sure you were going to say 'beauty is vain, but a woman who feareth the Lord…'" 

"No need," he said, "as you've already thought of it. Now what of this unnamed sin?" 

Nora shook her head slowly. "It is exactly that." 

"In what circumstances did you commit it?" 

"Complicated ones." 

"There are some hours yet before the next Mass," Father Powell pointed out. 

"When I was in France," Nora began, "I was occasioned to fall in love." Something that sounded rather like laughter came from the other side of the screen. "And there is no cause for you to sound so surprised, Father." 

"Go on, my child." 

"I did not sin against my chastity," Nora said, "I did not make him any vows that were then broken. But I left him, and my… heart is broken." There, she said it. That was the truest confession she had ever made, and probably the most painful. 

The priest asked her more questions on the matter, and in the end said, "regret is not a sin, Nora. Allowing yourself to be distracted from your Godly devotion by regret is." 

Wrath and vanity awarded her two Hail Marys—but for the very serious sin of breaking Erik's heart and denying her own? Nothing. 

"Give thanks to the Lord," the priest concluded, "for he is good." 

"For His mercy endures forever," Nora murmured in response. 

That evening found her in front of her mirror again, hair hanging down, chin resting on her hand. This was not vanity—this was simply wallowing in self-pity. 

She looked at her face from various angles in the candlelight. She was most assuredly out of the bloom of youth. The contours of her face had turned to sharper angles, and her skin had lost some of its old glow. The one thing that age had so far failed to do to her was to line her face—and she found that she resented that favor. There were some people who had their entire lives penned out on their faces—what of Nora's? The lines about her eyes and mouth—laugh lines and smile lines—were practically nonexistent. Vague wrinkles resultant from a lifetime of vague smiles and vague emotions. No real joy, though she supposed there was also no real pain. Was it an equitable tradeoff? 

She had often made a point of not showing her feelings. Apparently she had succeeded rather too well. How unlike… Erik. She found that his peculiar features threw every emotion into high relief. Anger, pain, joy—all played out vividly on his death's head face. It was just as well that he wore his mask. Not because he was ugly, but because one could not allow one's heart to be so plainly seen. 

________________________________________ 

DANIEL TREMBLAY 

BRITISH EMBASSY 

PARIS, FRANCE 

SICK OF OTTAWA. THINKING OF GREECE BY MAY. 

-NORA 

________________________________________ 

NORA FARLEY 

FARLEY HOUSE 

OTTAWA, ONTARIO, CANADA 

I WILL RETURN BY APRIL. WAIT FOR ME. 

-DANIEL 

________________________________________ 

DANIEL TREMBLAY 

BRITISH EMBASSY 

PARIS, FRANCE 

APRIL IS HERE. I'M HERE. GREECE IS OVER THERE SOMEWHERE. WHERE ARE YOU? 

-NORA 

________________________________________ 

NORA FARLEY 

FARLEY HOUSE 

OTTAWA, ONTARIO, CANADA 

LEAVING TOMORROW. FOR GOD'S SAKE, JUST STAY PUT. 

-DANIEL


End file.
